Loly pointed out, “I’m here. And as they say all over Easterrabbit, incest is best.”
Vladymyr stammered, “But … but … but … you’re married!”
Shrugging, Loly said, “I’m cool with it if you are.”
They stared at one another for a couple of beats, then Vladymyr stomped off, chanting, “All about the tang, all about the tang, all about the tang…”
Loly called, “Come out of the closet, brother dear!” When he didn’t respond, she whispered to herself, “Come out of the closet,” then slowly and thoughtfully walked back to her bedchamber.
HEADCASE
Headcase sat in the muddy bank of the muddy Capaetal Ceity River, staring at the placid water as if it were a snake coiling then uncoiling, unconcerned that the new feather-covered outfit Tinyjohnson had procured for him was growing filthier by the second. Tinyjohnson, however, seemed less than pleased.
“Your Footness,” the non-eunuch whined, unsuccessfully attempting to keep the whininess out of his voice, “those silken trousers were not made for sitting in a muddy riverbank and staring at placid water as if it were a snake coiling then uncoiling.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Head lied, “but there are more pressing matters on my mind. I have birthed an idea.”
Tinyjohnson said, “Birthed an idea? That sounds disgusting.”
“I’m certain anything having to do with birthing sounds disgusting to you, eunuch.”
Indignant, Tinyjohnson declared, “I am not a eunuch!” He motioned as if to pull down his trousers, then asked, “Would you care to see the proof?”
Head picked up two fistfuls of mud and rubbed them into his eyes, then begged, “Again, no, no, for the love of Gods, no. For the sake of argument, I will stipulate that you are not a eunuch, and will never mention it again. This isn’t to say that somebody else won’t mention it a few chapters down the road, but there you have it.”
“Thank you,” Tinyjohnson sighed. After a pause, he added, “I can show it to you anyhow. Just for fun.”
After putting more mud over his eyes, Head reiterated, “Thank you, but no. Now I called you down here to discuss how we can get Capaetal Ceity out of this financial mess. I have decided we shall have a festyval.”
“You mean a festival?” Tinyjohnson asked.
“No,” Head reiterated, “I mean a festyval. With a y. I shall call it the Woodstok Festyval of Frolicking, Fryvolity, and Fyghting. It will be three days of war and screaming. The fee shall be ten dollars per day, and the population of Cap Ceity is two hundred thousand, so if every citizen attends the festyval each day, that will net us six million dollars, which will give us more than enough money to repay our loans from Chyna. Not that we will repay them, but that’s neither here nor there.”
Tinyjohnson stated, “I greatly doubt that everybody in the Ceity will attend.”
“Oh, they will, Tinyjohnson.”
“How do you know?”
“Simple: Those who miss the festyval will be beheaded.”
Beaming, Tinyjohnson exclaimed, “Now that is how you Foot!”
JUAN
As Juan Nieve cleaned the mud from his shoes, he mumbled, “Barro maldito,35 barro maldito,36 barro maldito,37 then glanced at the Wall, noting the puddles forming at its base. “I can’t imagine what will happen to that thing now that Summer is coming,” he grumbled.
From behind him, a voice asked, “Is Summer indeed coming?”
Without turning around, Juan agreed, “Yes. El verano se acerca.”38
“Summer is coming?” the voice asked.
“El verano se acerca,”39 Juan agreed.
“Summer is coming?” the voice asked.
“El verano se acerca,”40 Juan agreed, then he turned around and found himself face-to-stomach with a boy who could generously be described as husky, but would more realistically be described as repulsively obese. “Can I help you, el gordo?”41 Juan asked.
The fat boy said, “Don’t call me fat boy.”
Juan gave the fat boy a long look, then whispered, “You understand my language. You are the only person in all of Easterrabbit who does.” With a lump in his throat, he said, “I feel a lump in my throat.”
Rubbing his jiggly gut, the fat boy said, “And I feel a lump in my stomach.”
They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then ran into an embrace, the boy falling on top of Juan. The jerkoff coughed, “Gxgglmrldtwop.”42
The boy rolled off of Juan, then apologized, “I apologize. Bad habit.” He then offered Juan his hand and said, “Snackwell Fartly, rotund one from the city of Heavensmurgatroyd.”
While shaking Snackwell’s porky hand, Juan pulled himself up and said, “Juan Nieve, jerkoff from the city of Summerseve.” After a beat, Juan pointed out, “Don’t take this the wrong way—you seem like a great guy and all—but it’s kind of odd that you just rolled up here, out of nowhere. Doesn’t make sense that some strange fat kid would just show up. It’s like you’re there to remind us of the importance of staying healthy, or maybe you’re a metaphor for alienation. Or maybe comic relief. Whatever you’re doing here, it’s random, and it had better lead somewhere, because the last thing this story needs is another character who’s there just to fill space.” Pointing at Snackwell’s jiggly tummy, Juan added, “But I will say this: if there’s one thing I bet you’re good at, it’s filling space.”
A brilliant grin overtook Snackwell’s face, a smile so beatific that for a brief moment, it was almost as if his corpulence was not an issue … the key word being almost, because Snackwell’s corpulence would always be an issue. “Juan Nieve, you and I will be great friends. You’re a jerkoff, and I’m a fatass. We’re two peas in a pod.”
“Well, Snackwell, that would have to be an awfully big pod!” Juan joked, and then the boys laughed, and laughed, and laughed. After the chuckles died, Juan asked, “So, fatass, if you’re not a metaphor, what brings you to the Wall?”
“Well, jerkoff, I want to start Rush Year today! I want to be a member of the Fraternity of the Swatch!”
Shaking his head, Juan said, “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do!” Snackwell cried. “I want to defend the border! I want to have adventures! I want to be a metaphor! I want to be a simile! I want to be an allegory! I want to battle the Others…”
From the distance, a voice cried, “We’re not the Others! We’re the Awesomes, asshole!”
“… and most importantly, I want to be part of a brotherhood.”
A voice from behind called, “You would be a wonderful addition to the family.”
The two outcasts turned around, and Juan sneered, “Hello, Otter.”
“Hi, there, jerkoff,” Otter sneered back. “Who’s the fatass?” Snackwell offered Otter his hand and an introduction, to which Otter—ignoring the proffered hand—pointed out, “You’re the fattest person I’ve ever seen. I bet you can boot like there’s no tomorrow.”
Snackwell scratched his head, then asked, “Boot?”
“Yeah, boot. You know, barf. Hurl. Heave. Honk. Ralph. Gack. Wolf. Urp. Spew. Chunk. Earl. Yak.”
After a bit of silence, Juan asked, “Are you done?”
“Oh, Gods no,” Otter scoffed. “Launch lunch. Blow foam. Yawn chunks. Clean house. Thunder chunder. Toss a tiger. Flash your hash. Mark the mud. Laugh at the lawn. Park the pea soup. Growl at the gravel. Lob some liquid hand grenades. Sing the ballad of the grog.” Pointing at Snackwell, he added, “I know that you know what I’m talking about, big boy.”
Snackwell stammered, “I … I … I think it might not be a good idea to go down that road. Because … because … because once I start down that road, there’s no telling when I’ll stop.”
Otter beamed, “Broheim, you sound like a natural boot-meister.” Then he raised his head to the sky and made a remarkably loud gagging noise, after which all the Swatch pledges came running. “Yes, Broheim Otter,” they said in unison.
“Fellow pledges, meet Snackwell
Fartly. You can call him Snack.”
“No, you can’t,” Snack protested.
“Yes, we can,” Otter disputed. “Broheim Snack is apparently one of the finest booters in all of Easterrabbit, and he’s going to give us a demonstration.”
“No, I’m not,” Snack protested.
“Yes, you are,” Otter disputed.
Juan said, “Just get it over with, Snack. If you want to be one of them, you’ll have to do it eventually.”
Snack stammered, “My … my … my stomach is empty, because I, um, what do you call it, hooted…”
“Booted,” Pinto corrected.
“Right. I booted on my way over.” Patting his stomach, he added, “Nothing there.”
“Not for long,” D-Day grinned, then tossed Snack an enormous box of grog. “Polish off half of that, and you’ll be booting until Summer.”
Snack sighed, “I don’t like grog.”
“Great,” Flounder said, “you’ll boot that much faster.”
Naturally, Otter then began a chant, which the Frat boys immediately picked up: “Drink! Boot! Drink! Boot! Drink! Boot!”
Finally, Snack succumbed. “Okay,” he said, “over the lips and past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes.” In one endless guzzle, he dumped the entire box of grog down his gullet. The Swatchmen gasped in amazement—even Juan was impressed—and were, for a change, speechless.
Eventually, Otter whispered with awe, “That was genius, Snack. I can’t wait to see the boot. Now let it go. You know you want to.”
His forehead dotted with sweat, Snack gurgled, “I do want to.” Then he took a deep breath, then another, then another, then leaned back as far as he possibly could—which, truth be told, was not that far—opened his mouth, and delivered a belch that uprooted three trees and knocked Otter et al. onto their backsides.
Otter sat up and felt the front of his shirt. “It’s dry,” he said. “Where’s the boot?”
Snack stared at his shoes, clearly embarrassed. “I can’t boot,” he admitted. “Never have, and probably never will.”
Otter said, “Well you clearly don’t have what it takes to be a Swatchman. I recommend you leave the area immediately. If you don’t, you shall suffer dire consequences.” And then Otter et al. stomped away.
Watching them go, Snack asked Juan, “What do they mean by dire consequences?” He paused, then said, “Wait, let me guess: they’ll boot on me.”
“Sí. They’ll boot on you.”
Snack hung his head, then whispered, “The fellowship I was seeking is not here.” He glanced at the Wall and said, “Maybe the Others will have me.”
“No, we won’t! And we’re not the Others! We’re the Awesomes, asshole!”
“Well, that answers that question,” Snack sighed. “I shall be on my way.”
He took two steps, then, out of nowhere, Broheim Cooke appeared. “Where’re you going, fatass?”
“Away,” Snack groaned.
“Nah, hang around. I think you might provide some comic relief down the line.” To Juan, he said, “Listen, jerkoff, your pal Sinjean Barker has disappeared.”
“Gosh,” Juan mused, “I haven’t thought about him in, what, ten chapters, maybe fifteen. Any idea where he might be?”
From behind a tree, they heard an Ahem.
“What was that?” Cooke asked.
Juan and Snack both shrugged, then heard again, except louder: “Ahem!”
“What the hell was that?” Cooke asked again, and again, Juan and Snack shrugged.
The ahem turned into a cough … a cough that sounded remarkably like the cougher, rather than coughing “Hack, hack, hack,” was saying “Sin, Sin, Sin.”
Snack turned to Juan and asked, “Does it sound to you like he’s saying ‘Sin, Sin, Sin’ rather than ‘Hack, hack, hack’?”
“No,” Cooke disagreed, “it definitely doesn’t.”
“Yes,” the cougher cried, “it definitely does.” And then, from behind the tree, out emerged Sinjean Barker.
Juan’s face broke into a goofy grin. “Uncle Sin, for the last twenty-six seconds, I thought you were gone, and those were the worst twenty-six seconds of my life!”
Sinjean asked, “Do you want to know the worst twenty-six seconds of my life, jerkoff?”
“Not really,” Juan said.
Ignoring Juan, Sin said, “It was Sixty-eight. I was in Da Nang, ass-deep in a stinking rice paddy, Charlie to the left, Charlie to the right, Charlie in front, Charlie in back. My buddy Horse had caught some shrapnel in his gut, and that magnificent bastard was bleeding out at my feet. As he told me to tell Lucy and the girls that he loved them, it hit me: if Horse could bite it, I could bite it. I mean, I was out of ammo, out of acid, out of water, and just about out of time, and for twenty-six seconds, I was certain that I was dead, certain that House Barker would have to go on without the Sin Man. But then the choppers came, and they took me right to Summerseve.” He paused, then said, “I’m not ashamed to say I kissed the mud when I landed.”
From over the Wall, somebody yelled, “It’s not nice to refer to the Viet Cong as Charlie, asshole!” And then Sinjean Barker was vaporized by an AGM-87 Focus guided missile.
Juan, Cooke, and Snack stared somberly at the pile of ash that was once Sinjean Barker. Finally, Cooke said, “No offense, jerkoff, but I am not going to miss that big psycho. Not one bit.”
Under his breath, Juan whispered, “Me neither,” then he clapped Snackwell Fartly on the shoulder and said, “Come on, culo enorme,43 I’m not sending you out into the world all by yourself, Broheim-less. Let’s teach you how to boot.”
Snack gave Juan a grateful grin and whispered reverently, “Nothing would make me happier, you gigantic jerkoff. Nothing at all.”
HEADCASE
According to the Encyclopedya Easterrabbitica, House Barfonme was the second worst House in terms of illiteracy—just behind House Targetpractice, naturally—in part because Capaetal Ceity’s schools were only open during the Summer—which never came—and in part because the town’s lone bookstore was located at the foot of an active volcano, in a mall that also housed the area’s only apothecary.
As Lord Headcase Barker trudged to said store, he read, and reread, and reread Lady Gateway Bully Barker’s ravengram:
I know you’re all wrapped up in your lame-brained festyval, but don’t forget that Tritone Sinister tried to kill our kid, and you need to find out why. Hugs, Gateway.
P.S. I decided not to become a prostitute.
P.P.S. You have to keep watching the girls by yourself, because I’m not coming back to Capaetal Ceity, but rather going to visit my sister for reasons that are not quite clear yet. Make sure Malia eats her veggies.
P.P.P.S. Your little friend Tinyjohnson is traveling with me. I think he’s a eunuch.
P.P.P.P.S. Think of me when you touch yourself.
Head wanted nothing more than to think of his wife when he touched himself, but in the little time for self-touching, he could not concentrate. His brain kept going to the Sinister situation, because when it came to why House Sinister was at battle with House Barker, there were dozens of plot holes, and it was driving him to distraction. In true Head-like fashion, he decided to do some research, so he could fill those blanks right on in, thus the trip to the bookshop.
The floor of Baredor’s Books was coated with a thin layer of volcanic ash, but Head thought that just added to the shop’s charm. When Head sauntered up to the counter, the shop’s proprietor, Blubbernerd Millipede, fell to his knees and, through a haze of ash, said, “My Lord, the King’s Foot, how may this humble bookseller aid you on this fine day?”
“First,” Head said, fanning the ash from his face, “I command you to stand up.” After Millipede rose, Head continued, “Second, I need a history book.”
“What kind of history book?”
Shrugging, Head admitted, “No idea. What happened in Easterrabbit’s past is a bit confusing. I mean, the years aren’t logically numbered, the Summe
rs and Winters come and go with no rhyme or reason, and the maps of this place make zero sense. But I’ll worry about that later; my main goal right now is to find out why all the Houses hate each other so Godsdamn much.”
Millipede raised his index finger, claimed, “I have just the thing,” then skittered off to the stacks. A couple of minutes later, he returned with an oversized book, which he handed to Head, then said, “This might be just what you’re looking for.”
Head peered at the cover: The Lineages and Histories and Stories and Secrets of the Lots and Lots of Kingdoms, with Caricatures and Distorted Renderings of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children and Their Pets and Their Slaves and Their Silverware and Their Horses and Their Sigils and Their Breakfasts and Their Lunches and Their Dinners and Their Onions by Grand Maester Baeter.
After giving the two-thousand-plus-page book a quick thumb-through, Head said, “I don’t know, Blubbernerd, it looks interesting, but I don’t think it’s the one.”
“I understand, my Footship. I believe I have the perfect title,” he claimed, then again skittered off. A couple of minutes later, he returned with an even more oversized book, which he handed to Head, then said, “I believe this will be more to your liking.”
Head peered at the cover: The Chronicles and Records and Sagas of the World as We Know It and the Individuals and Figures and Peoples Who Created the Infrastructures and the Organizations and the Societies and the Unions That Will Be Endured and Enjoyed by Each and Every Sentient Man and Woman and Child and Dragon Throughout the Land and the Terra Firma and the Soil and the Terrain and the Historical Histories That Emerged from the Meetings and the Gatherings and the Assemblies That Led to the Creation of the Infrastructures and the Organizations and the Societies by Grand Maester Broocelee.
“I’m not sure, Blubbernerd.” Head shrugged after giving the 3,000-plus-page book a fast peek. “This might be a little too broad.”
“Ah, you want something specific. I understand, my Footship. I believe I have the perfect title.” A couple of minutes later, he returned with a miniature book—a pamphlet, really—which he handed to Head, then said, “I believe this will be more to your liking.”
A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot Page 12
