TRITONE
For the fifth time that morning, Tritone Sinister stepped in a warm pile of vomit. “Godsdamn it,” he mumbled to himself, “these Swatch morons are dumber than … dumber than … dumber than…” He was so honked off about the vomit situation that he could not even come up with a quality “dumber than…” insult.
Another thing that appalled the giant about the Frat boys: they were lightweights. Three drinks, and those chumps were out. Tritone, on the other hand, could drink seven boxes of the most potent grog in Easterrabbit, and still ride a horse like nobody’s business.
Tritone walked back to base camp—slowly and carefully, so as not to tromp through another heap of regurgitated onions—but before he got back to his tent, he ran into Broheim Alistair Cooke. Cooke smiled. “Ah, Mr. Sinister, I hope your stay with us continues to be a happy one.”
“This place blows. The people who run it are so dumb, they’d get run over by a parked horse,” Tritone claimed.
“That’s A-1 material, Tritone, just great,” Cooke claimed. “So listen, how long do you plan to stay with us? Because we’re heading North. Remember, Summer is coming.”
“Ah. Right. Summer is coming. Haven’t heard that one in two chapters. I’m cutting out tonight. But before I split, Cooke, I’ve got a question for you: Who’s the best booter in this dump?”
Cooke shyly said, “I’ve been told I can boot pretty well.”
“If that’s the case, Shecky, then you are most definitely not the poster child for those who can’t do, teach, because your boys can’t do.”
With an offended look on his face, Cooke said, “Do you think you can do better? Do you think you can out-boot me?”
“Broheim, I could out-boot you with one intestine tied behind my back.”
Cooke removed his shirt and roared, “Tritone Sinister has challenged me to a booting duel!” Then he raised his head to the sky and made a remarkably loud gagging noise, after which all the Swatch pledges came running, except for Juan Nieve, who came trudging. “Bluto,” he called, “recite the rules of a booting challenge.”
“The first rule of a booting challenge,” Bluto said, “is that you do not talk about a booting challenge!”
“Correct!” Cooke roared.
“The second rule of a booting challenge,” Bluto continued, “is that you do not talk about a booting challenge!”
“Correct!” Cooke roared.
“The third rule of a booting challenge,” Bluto continued, “is that if someone says stop, the contest is over!”
“Correct!”
“The fourth rule of a booting challenge is that there are only two guys to a boot! The fifth rule is that there’s one boot at a time! The sixth rule is no shirt, no shoes, no boot! The seventh rule is that all boots go on as long as they have to! The eighth rule is that if this is your first night, you must boot.”
“Swell,” Tritone grunted. “On your mark, get set, go.”
“Wait, I’m not ready,” Cooke whined.
“Tough titties,” Tritone said, then pulled a box of grog from his sack, downed it in three gulps, and projectile booted on Broheim Cooke’s head.
Cooke mumbled, “Stop,” and thus, according to rule three, the contest was over.
Disgusted, Tritone grumbled, “Lightweights,” then took Juan by the elbow and told the jerkoff, “You and me, we have to talk.”
Juan jerked his elbow away and complained, “I don’t want to talk to you, giant. I’m tired of hearing how stupid I am. Also, I’m not fat, so you can stop with that, too.”
Tritone pinched Juan’s stomach and said, “I don’t know, Shecky. It looks like you’re packing on the pounds. If you don’t watch it, you’ll have to marry three girls just to get a full-body hug. Which is actually what I wanted to talk about.”
“I’m not the marrying kind, Tritone,” Juan said.
“Apparently, you’re not the boinking kind, either.”
Juan blushed. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s nobody to hacer lo desagradable34 with around here.”
“Hacer lo what?”
“I don’t mess around with dudes.”
“Yeah, me neither. I think my old pal Vladymyr Targetpractice has that mess-around-with-dudes thing covered. I want to talk because in case you ever have the opportunity to mess around with a girl, I want you to be prepared.”
“Tritone,” Juan said, “I don’t need—”
“When two people love each other very, very much,” Tritone interrupted, “they get certain feelings, feelings of excitement, and their private parts—the man’s is called a penis, and the woman’s is called a vagina—become sensitive to the touch … but in a good way.”
“Tritone, I…”
“Listen, you need this lesson, my friend, because I’ve seen your junk, and that thing is so small that you have to jump when you pee just so you can get the piss over your nuts.”
“Tritone…”
“Your dick is like a landmine: small, hidden, and explodes on contact.”
“Tri…”
“Your dick is so small that bacteria laughs at it.”
“Oh yeah? Well your head is so soft that if I hit it with the butt end of my sword, it would hurt.”
“That’s not a zinger, Juan,” Tritone said.
“Here’s the punch line,” Juan said, then hit Tritone Sinister with the butt end of his sword. As Tritone crumbled to the muddy ground in a heap, Juan yelled, “Thank you very much, everybody! Tip your waitress, and try the veal with onions, and please always remember, and please never forget, wherever you go, there you are! Good night!”
As Juan walked away, Tritone grumbled, “That small-dicked jerkoff stole my exit line.”
ALLBRAN
Dickoff, the youngest Barker child, was despised by his siblings—and justifiably so, as he was a little snot who did nothing to move the story forward—so he had become an expert at amusing himself, primarily with mud. Nobody in Summerseve baked a better mudpie, or built a better mudman, or threw a better mudball than Dickoff Barker.
Normally, Allbran wanted nothing to do with Dickoff and his muddy shenanigans, but he had been locked in his bedroom for the last two weeks—Maester Blaester said he would heal faster if he was confined day and night—and he was so bored that making a mud sculpture did not sound so bad.
As was his wont, Dickoff was playing in the mud pile directly below Allbran’s bedroom window. While Allbran watched his little brother longingly, he unconsciously leaned farther and farther out the window; the farther away Dickoff walked away from the castle, the farther out Allbran leaned. When Dickoff wandered out of sight, Allbran took a deep sigh, then released a deeper fart that launched him into the air and through the window.
Allbran fell three stories, then crashed to the ground without making a sound. He lay still for several minutes, taking inventory of his injuries, of which there were none. He extricated himself from the mud, then looked around to see who had noticed the fall. Since most of our characters were either in Capaetal Ceity or journeying from one place to another, nobody saw or heard Allbran’s tumble. He jogged over to the castle and scaled the wall without the benefit of a rope, and was back in his bed in three minutes, Maester Blaester none the wiser.
After he removed his muddy clothes, he crawled into bed and, for the first time in forever, thought about Old Bag, his nanny who has yet to be mentioned before this chapter, and will never be mentioned again after this chapter.
What with the gigantic green wart on the tip of her nose, her wrinkled skin, and her three saggy breasts, Old Bag was still the ugliest person Allbran had ever seen in his life. Her eyes were rheumy, her breath was hideous, and where Allbran’s gas expulsions were charming, Old Bag’s were appalling.
As Allbran drifted off, one of the many fables Old Bag subjected him to popped into his head: the story of the three Others.
According to Old Bag, half of the Others behind the Wall were kind and benevolent, while the other Others were violent brutes with no
conscience whatsoever. One day many Summers ago, a kind Other named Mork Myndy decided to convert three of the other Others to a life of giving. The first Other Mork approached was named Filthy McNasty.
“Filthy,” Mork said, “I believe that you would be more fulfilled if you stopped tearing off the limbs of the other Others.”
Filthy regarded Mork skeptically, then nodded and said, “I believe you are correct, but I will stop tearing off limbs only if you can convince our middle brother to do so too.”
His heart singing, Mork skipped over to the home of Filthy’s brother, Dirty. “Dirty,” Mork said, “I believe that you would be more fulfilled if you stopped tearing off the limbs of the other Others.”
Dirty scratched his chin, and told Mork, “You might be right. Talk to our youngest brother, and if he’s on board, then so am I.”
Floating on a cloud, Mork skipped over to the home of the youngest McNasty, Grungy. “Grungy,” he said, “I believe that you would be more fulfilled if you stopped tearing off the limbs of the other Others.”
Grungy dug a finger in his ear and said, “I would tell you I think that’s a good idea, Mork, but honestly, I don’t.” And then he tore off Mork’s left arm. Blood jetted from both Mork’s dismembered limb and the gaping hole near his shoulder, painting the walls of Grungy McNasty’s house, as well as Grungy himself. Grungy then stuck his fist into the shoulder hole and felt around as if he was on a treasure hunt … which, as it turned out, he was. He snapped off a chunky piece of Mork’s collarbone, gave it a thoughtful look, then popped it into his mouth. It took him several minutes to fully chew it, during which time Mork bled out. Grungy then called for his brothers, and when they arrived at the house, they feasted upon Mork’s body as if it were their last meal … which, as it turned out, it was, because, as it so happened, Mork’s blood type was AB negative, a blood type that was an anathema to the McNastys’ gastrointestinal systems. Once Mork’s blood hit Filthy, Dirty, and Grungy’s intestinal tracts, their stomachs all exploded, yellow bile flew from their mouths, and they died horrible, painful deaths. The moral of the story, Old Bag explained, was this: Don’t fuck with the Others.
For weeks after hearing that tale, Allbran had nightmares of dismembered arms and exploding stomachs. Eventually Headcase and Gateway got wind of Old Bag’s awful bedtime stories, so she was summarily fired. But that did not put an end to Allbran’s nightmares.
Remembering the story’s awful climax—and flashing back on the ensuing nightmares—Allbran flew out of bed and jumped out the window, landing in Dickoff’s mud pile with a sickening squish. He lay still for several minutes, taking inventory of his injuries, of which there were none. He extricated himself from the mud, then looked around to see who had noticed the fall. Since, as noted, most of our characters were either in Capaetal Ceity or journeying from one place to another, nobody saw or heard Allbran’s tumble … but Allbran saw and heard one of the characters: Bobb.
His older brother was stomping across the front yard, talking to himself. Allbran strained to discern what Bobb was saying, and he did not like what he heard, not one bit.
“House Barker has no leader,” Bobb blustered. “Father’s getting old, and Mother’s an idiot. If we’re attacked, his Lordship would give the enemies a lecture about how they should be nice to one another, and Mother would invite them in for Godsweede and cake. Me, I’d put together an unstoppable army and slaughter them. I’d slaughter them all! Bwah hah hah hah hah hah hahhhhhhhhhh!”
Once Bobb was out of earshot and eyeshot, Allbran cut the loudest, smelliest cheese he had ever cut; it was so powerful that it lifted him off the ground, and up the three stories to his bedroom. He wiped off the mud from his nude body, crawled into bed, and decided that solitary confinement was not so bad after all.
LOLYTA
Curled up in her enormous mud-bed, under her 600-thread-count Easterrabbitian cotton sheets, Loly Targetpractice smiled and thought, It’s good to be the KERBANGER.
The past few months had been the best of her life: Her every need was catered to, she was treated with respect by each and every person in Dork (except Vladymyr, naturally), and it turned out that Ivan Drago (and his enormous horse schlong) was damn good under a horse blanket. All in all, a magical existence.
Except for the dreams.
Each and every night, seemingly minutes after she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, Loly found herself in the middle of a giant field filled with eggs of all colors and sizes, many of which were alive, many of which tried to attack her. She ducked and dodged, but the egg assault was so intense that there was nothing she could do to fully protect herself, so she inevitably got nailed. Most of the eggs were filled with what she figured most eggs were filled with—gooey whites and gooier yolks—but some of them carried hatchlings, and those creatures were hideous: tiny, yellow, and covered with soft feathers. These awful beings tried to communicate with her, but she was unable to understand their language, which seemed to consist of two words: quack and awk.
When Loly told Magistrate Illinois about the dreams, Magistrate gave her a strange look and explained, “KERBANGER, it sounds like you’re dreaming of ducks. And you’re obsessed with ducks. You’re the Princess of Duckseventually, for Gods’ sake.”
“Those aren’t ducks, Chicago. Ducks are huge, bigger than you could ever imagine, and they’re green, and they have scales, and a long tail covered with thorny things, and they breathe fire. Duh.”
“My KERBANGER, you’re talking about dragons,” Illinois explained.
“No, I’m definitely talking about ducks. Dragons look like horses, except they have black and white stripes.”
“Those are zebras, my KERBANGER.”
“No, zebras are short,” Loly claimed, “and are black with white tummies, and they waddle, and even though they have wings, they can’t fly.”
“Those are penguins, my KERBANGER.”
Loly flung open her bedroom door and called, “Vladymyr!”
Her brother was there in the blink of a dragon’s eye. “Yes, sister dear?”
“Tell Magistrate Illinois what dragons look like.”
“Horses, except with black and white stripes,” Vladymyr explained.
Illinois rolled her eyes and stomped out of the room, mumbling, “House Targetpractice and their Godsdamn home schooling.”
Loly called to Illinois, “Before this is all said and done, I bet you a duck’ll play a big role in this story!” She turned to Vladymyr and asked, “Ducks will play a big role in this story, won’t they? I mean, we’ve been going on and on about them, and it has to lead somewhere.”
Before Vladymyr could answer, a Dorki galloped into the bedroom and said, “Congo bongo, bongo congo, riding lesson.”
Vladymyr gave Loly a shocked look, then asked her in a whisper, “Did he just say riding lesson?”
She whispered back, “Yeah. They seem to be picking up the language.”
“Weird. That was quick,” he noted.
The KERBANGER shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s go ride.”
The Targetpractices both enjoyed their lessons for the same reason: Rather than ride on horses, they rode on Dorkis, and to Loly and Vladymyr, straddling a male Dorki’s back was far more satisfying than straddling a horse’s back. (Vladymyr wasn’t impressed with his first Dorki, a female called Ivan Barbara, so he whined until they gave him a male named Ivan Kevin.) Loly had become quite attached to her lesson Dorki, Ivan George, and taking into account the way he moaned when she straddled him, she thought that he liked her too.
It was their fifth lesson, and Loly was already an expert at riding a Dorki; truth be told, she did not need any more lessons, but she did not want to stop. Vladymyr, on the other hand, seemed confused, almost as if he were trying to find himself.
After they both mounted their centaurs, Ivan George said, “Oingo boingo, let’s go go go go.”
Under his breath, Vladymyr asked Loly, “Did he just say, ‘let’s go go go go’?”
&nb
sp; “Who cares?” she asked.
Vladymyr claimed, “It’s weird that they went from being subhuman morons to decent speakers in only a few chapters.”
Ivan Kevin growled, “Bippety boppety boo, I can totally hear you.”
Pointing at the Dorki, he hissed to Loly, “See?!”
As she scratched Ivan George behind the ear, she told Vladymyr, “As your KERBANGER, I command you to shut up.” To Ivan George, she exclaimed, “Oingo boingo, let’s go go go go!”
After their lesson—which, as usual, they both enjoyed a bit too much—they jumped off their Dorkis and walked slowly back to the castle. Loly did not have much to say, as she was focused on the tingling in her loins. Vladymyr, who seemed to have trouble walking, was equally quiet. Right before they entered the castle, Loly noticed her brother was adjusting something below his beltline, his expression a combination of pleasure and pain. Staring at his beltline, Loly asked, “Everything okay, brother dear?”
He pulled his hand away from below his waist and began to furiously scratch his head. “Everything’s fine,” he claimed. “Why would you think it wasn’t? I’m great. As a matter of fact, I’m perfect. No, I’m fierce!”
Loly stared at her brother for an awkward moment, then asked, “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
“What? Tell you? What do you mean? Tell you what? Nothing to tell here. I’m fierce.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said. After another uncomfortable pause, she blustered, “I’m just going to come right out and say it: Do you like boys?”
He pshawed, “No way! You know I like girls. For that matter, I love girls. I’m all about the tang. I mean, look how often I pinch your nipples.”
“And I do love that,” Loly admitted, “but I sometimes feel like you’re doing it to, I don’t know, compensate or something.”
Vladymyr’s face turned beet red, and he screeched, “You shut up, little Miss Duckseventually! You shut up right now! Girls are the best! Nothing’s better than what goes on between their legs, nothing! If there was a girl here right now, I’d dive on in.”
A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot Page 11
