A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot

by George R. R. Washington

  “Brilliant idea, Your Highness,” Tinyjohnson said.

  “You’re an idiot, Bobbert,” Head sighed. “A drunken, impulsive idiot.”

  “He’s right, Your Highness,” Tinyjohnson said. “You are an idiot.”

  “No, you’re the idiot!” Bobbert roared at the Foot.

  To Head, Tinyjohnson asserted, “He’s right, Your Footness. You, too, are an idiot.”

  Bobbert reached into his pocket and pulled out an onion. “Allium cepa in your grill, Foot!” And then he hurled the allium cepa at Head’s head.

  As Head pulled onion spew from his beard, Tinyjohnson simpered, “Brilliant throw, Your Highness.”

  Head glared silently at his old friend, then ran out of the throne room, returning a minute later with a bag of onions almost big enough to feed Snackwell Fartly. He unsheathed Slush, coolly picked the biggest onion from the bag, stuck it on the end of his blade, then flung the sword at King Bobbert’s midsection. It missed wide right and kept on going until it stuck in the wall.

  “Brilliant throw, Your Footness,” Tinyjohnson professed.

  Bobbert leapt off the throne, reached into the onion bag, pulled out as many as he could hold in both arms, then ran to the opposite side of the room. “Onions at fifty paces, Barky-Boy!” he cried, then tossed one of the vegetables at Headcase, missing by several feet.

  “Brilliant throw, Your Highness.” Tinyjohnson grinned.

  At once, Head and Bobbert roared, “Shut up!” They pelted the possible eunuch with ten onions each, knocking him unconscious.

  The two old friends then stared silently at one another, panting and sweating, sweating and panting. Finally, King Bobbert broke the silence: “Maybe you should go back to Summerseve.”

  Shrugging his head coyly, shuffling his feet, and avoiding eye contact with Bobbert, he said, “Maybe I should.”

  “Okay, then,” Bobbert answered. “Then go.”

  “Fine. I’ll go.” He was motionless.

  “Fine. Go.”

  “Fine. I’ll go.” He remained motionless.

  “Good. I’ll be glad when you’re gone.”

  “Yeah, me too. So I’m going.” Still he remained motionless.

  “Then go.”

  “Fine. I’ll go.”

  “Good. Go.”

  “I’m going.”

  “Great. So go.”

  By the time this back-and-forth banter wound up some four hours later, they both forgot what they were angry about … but that did not stop Lord Headcase Barker from resigning his Footship, packing his bags, and preparing for a journey back to Summerseve.

  LOLYTA

  KERBANGER Lolyta Targetpractice was perched on her bejeweled throne, Magistrate Illinois on her left and Vladymyr Targetpractice on her right. Loly squirmed uncomfortably because the entire throne was bejeweled, seat included, and her buttocks were exceptionally sensitive from last night’s paddling session with Ivan Drago. (After initially being nervous about the act of making love with each other, Loly and Ivan Drago had become quite open and comfortable with each other and, despite the language barrier, had managed to make each other aware of their respective needs and desires. It turned out that Ivan Drago liked paddling, and Loly liked being paddled. It was as if they were a match made by the Gods, a salacious match that would translate well to both the page and the small screen.)

  Standing beside the throne, Vladymyr glared at Loly and complained, “I haven’t seen much of you. Seems like you’ve been awfully wrapped up in your work.”

  “That’s KERBANGER to you, subject,” she said. “And KERBANGING is a busy profession. As much as I enjoy them, I don’t have time for your feeble nipple tweaks and bitchy tirades.”

  He glared at her, then whispered menacingly, “You know, if you keep speaking to me in this manner, you shall wake the ducks. And trust me, you do not want to wake the ducks, because if you wake the ducks—”

  Loly interrupted, “Again with waking the ducks. On the page: waking the ducks. On the small screen: waking the ducks. Listen, brother dear, you can try as hard as you want, but you’re not going to inject any catch-phrases into this whole mess. It isn’t that kind of project. Besides, we’re on premium cable, and catchphrases are totally CBS.”

  “If you wake the ducks,” he repeated, “all hell will break loose. If you wake the ducks, KERBANGER, the sun will fall from the sky, and the moon will explode into a million bits. If you wake the ducks, KERBANGER, the mud will turn to diamonds, and diamonds will turn to mud. If you wake the ducks, KERBANGER, the…”

  “Hey, Vladymyr.”

  “Yes?”

  “Kneel when you’re in the presence of your KERBANGER.”

  Vladymyr glared at Loly, then gritted, “First of all, I’m your older brother, and I will not kneel before you. And second of all, these are new pants, and since all the floors in this castle are filthy, my knees never touch the ground.”

  Magistrate Illinois mumbled, “That’s not what I heard.”

  “I heard that,” Vladymyr said.

  “You were meant to,” Illinois noted. At that, Illinois and Loly tittered. At that, Vladymyr stomped his foot, grunted something that sounded like “Uch,” then minced out of the room.

  After he was out of earshot, Illinois intoned, “Would you like an update on the Dorki political situation, my KERBANGER?”

  “Not really.” Loly frowned.

  Ignoring her, Illinois took a Word document from her pocket and reported, “Ivan J’Marcus is twelve points ahead of Ivan Derek in the polls for District Four. It behooves us that Ivan J’Marcus emerge victorious, because he’s running on the platform of ‘Ooga booga boo boo boo,’ whereas Ivan Derek’s ‘Inga binga bing bing bing’ approach will have dire consequences for us.”

  With a blank look, Loly asked Illinois, “Um, what?”

  Illinois continued, “Things are a bit more heated in District Ten, where Ivan Margaret is neck and neck with Ivan Steve. That could be a problem because Dork is simply not ready for a female representative. We’re trying to dig up some dirt on Ivan Margaret. No luck so far, but we haven’t exhausted our resources. I’ll spare you the details for reasons of plausible deniability.”

  Aside from the fact that she was both clueless and apathetic about the upcoming elections, Loly was unable to focus on Illinois’s rundown because she could not stop dreaming of Ivan Drago, his magnificent human chest, and his even more magnificent horse junk. Last night’s paddling was the culmination of a week of experimenting that left Loly at once sated and hungry. Just as Illinois was about to explain why Ivan Francois was going to triumph in his battle with Ivan Gerard, the KERBANGER asked, “Illinois, do you know where Ivan Drago is?”

  “Don’t you want to hear the rest of the polling?”

  “Gods no. This KERBANGER wants a piece of her man, and what this KERBANGER wants, this KERBANGER gets.”

  Magistrate Illinois muttered, “Power tripper.”

  “I heard that,” Loly said.

  “You were meant to,” Illinois noted. “Anyhow, last I heard, your man was in the center of town.”

  Loly stood up, reached under her skirt, pulled off her panties, handed them to Illinois, and noted, “You know what to do with these, Magistrate.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Illinois took Loly’s unmentionables between her thumb and forefinger, holding them away from her nose as if they were a snake coiling then uncoiling, then stomped away without a word.

  Ivan Drago was indeed in the center of town, lying on his side, slathering himself with Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Sunblock SPF 94,167,211,467, whinnying contentedly. Loly slinked over to him and said, “You need any help with that, big boy?”

  Smiling, Ivan Drago gave his bride a onceover, then neighed, “Wowzie wowzie woo woo woo!”

  “That’s what I thought,” Loly purred, grabbing his equine tumescence.

  While she tugged at his fifth leg, Ivan Drago moaned, “Ooga booga use both hands, and try some lubrication.”

  As th
at was the most coherent sentence she had heard come from Ivan Drago’s lips, Loly stopped, and asked, “Wait, what did you say?”

  Ivan Drago coughed. “Um, crap, I mean rippedy zip, zippedy rip. Oonga. Mmmmmm.”

  “Oh,” Loly said, then continued her tugging. As Ivan Drago’s breath quickened, a crowd formed around the couple, which, as she was more aroused than she had been in all of her thirteen years, she barely noticed. However, when the audience launched into a chant of what sounded like Faster, faster, faster, she paused … but, undaunted, continued mere seconds later, going faster, faster, faster.

  Ivan Drago took Loly’s hands from his member, tenderly removed her clothes, and mounted her. After a while, their screams grew in volume, eventually mingling with those of the crowd. When the couple reached their climaxes, their cries could be heard in the hills, and the viewers’ applause could be heard in the mountains.

  After they disentangled from each other, the crowd dispersed; Ivan Drago galloped over to a nearby water trough, and Loly wobbled back to the castle, her body happily sore inside and out.

  Vladymyr was waiting for Loly at the front door. Glaring at his sister, he sneered, “Just got an interesting ravengram, sister dear. Apparently you and Ivan Drago had yourselves a nice little pants-free party in the center of town. Real classy, sis. You’re sure doing the Targetpractice name proud.”

  “Hey, that’s the way it’s done around here.” She smiled. “And when in Dork, do as the Dorkis. Besides, what happens in Dork stays in Dork.”

  “Does he pinch your nipples like I do?” Vladymyr griped.

  Loly patted her brother’s right cheek and said, “Nobody pinches my nipples like you do, darling. Thank Gods.”

  He flicked her hand away and claimed, “Nobody pinches underage nipple as well as I do, nobody! I’m more masculine than Ivan Drago will ever be!”

  Patting his other cheek, Loly soothed, “Of course you are, Vladymyr. Of course you are. He’s only half the man you are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit on my eggs for a while. I think they might be ready to hatch.”

  Off in the distance, Juan Nieve’s direpanda, Fourshadow, could be heard growling.

  GATEWAY

  When they were mere minutes away from House Aaron, Lady Gateway Barker peered at Tinyjohnson and said, “I thought you were in Cap Ceity.”

  “I am,” Tinyjohnson said.

  “You are? But you’re here,” Gateway pointed out.

  “I mean, I was there. But I’m now here. I’m most definitely not there. Obviously.”

  “Sometimes,” Gateway mused, “it’s almost like you’re two characters combined into one.”

  Tinyjohnson scoffed, “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It seems like you’re in two places at once.”

  “No way.”

  “You’re supposed to be advising the King, and yet you’re here with me.”

  “I’m not. I’m not there, I mean. I mean, I’m not there now. Now this line of questioning ends, because we have arrived at our destination … finally.”

  Two steps onto the grounds of the castle, Gateway crashed into a man clad in a one-piece blue burlap jumpsuit. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked as he pulled himself up from the ground and tried to wipe the mud from his backside.

  “Lady Gateway Bully Barker here to see Lady Lysergic Bully Aaron.”

  The guard gave Gateway a snooty onceover, then said, “Strip.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “All of you, strip.”

  At that, Tinyjohnson put his hands over his crotch and sprinted away, screaming, “I am not a eunuch! I am not a eunuch! I am not a eunuch!”

  Ignoring Tinyjohnson’s sudden exit, Gateway asked the burlap-wearer, “Why? I’ve been here dozens of times, and not once have I been asked to remove my clothes.”

  “We’re tightening up security,” the guard said. “We need to make sure you’re not armed.”

  Pointing at her sword, Gateway pointed out, “We’re all armed.”

  “I don’t mean armed with weapons, ma’am. I mean armed with liquids.”

  “Um, what?”

  “If combined in a certain manner, liquids can be deadly, even water. Our security partners conducted extensive explosives testing last summer and determined that liquids, aerosols, and gels, in limited quantities, are safe to bring into the castle, the key phrase being limited quantities. You may fill either a three-ounce bottle, or one quart-sized clear plastic zip-top bag. Medications, baby formula and food, and breast milk are allowed in reasonable quantities, and are not required to be in the zip-top bag. Officers may need to open these items to conduct additional screening. Now strip, please.”

  After a moment or two of silence, Bobdillon asked, “What’s plastic?” after which the guard pulled out a knife and slit the troubadour’s throat. Immediately, Gateway, Tritone Sinister, and Crayola Burntsienna tore off their respective clothes.

  The guard picked up a handful of leaves from the muddy ground, wrapped them around his hand, then told Gateway et al., “Okay, kiddies, bend over and spread ’em.”

  He stuck his right index finger up Burntsienna’s rectum, and his left index finger up Tritone’s. When Burntsienna yelped, Tritone told the guard, “I think he’s honked off that you didn’t buy him dinner first.”

  The guard sneered, “Both of you are clean. Get dressed and proceed.” To Gateway, he murmured, “Let’s see what you’ve got hiding up there, sister.” He poked his index finger in up to the first joint, then the second, then the third. Right before he was about to attempt a fist, he grinned, said, “Jackpot,” then yanked out a small bag of Godsweede. “Busted! Confiscated! Get dressed and proceed.”

  “But Godsweede isn’t illegal,” Gateway remarked.

  “No, it isn’t, but it’s really hard to get any good stuff around here. The Vailcolorado soil is a disaster, and every single plant we grow comes out all skunky.” He opened the bag and took a whiff, then winced. “Godsdamn it, Lady Gateway, how long has this thing been up your backside?”

  She scratched her head, then guessed, “Two years. Maybe three.”

  He dropped the back of weede onto the ground and used his foot to cover it with mud. “Proceed to the throne room. Lady Lysergic is expecting you.”

  As they walked toward the castle, Gateway grumbled, “That was still smokable, jerkoff.”

  The House Aaron throne room was enormous, even bigger than the Barfonmes’. When Gateway, Tritone, and Burntsienna entered, Lysergic ran to her sister, arms spread. During a long, strong hug, Lysergic said, “Gateway, Gateway, Gateway, you look smashing!”

  “You too, big sister,” Gateway said. “Again, my condolences for Functionary. I can’t imagine your pain. He was the only person in Easterrabbit who could hit a curveball.”

  “Curveball?”

  “Remember, we had to take out all those awesome baseball jokes based on Fuctionary’s last name?”

  “Right, right, right. Forgot about that. Losing those jokes was almost as painful as losing my husband.” She paused, then added, “I received your ravengram. It was quite touching, and for that, I thank you.” She pulled herself from her sister’s embrace. “But I should point out that Cerevix Barfonme sent flowers. And we don’t even like each other.”

  Gateway stated, “Don’t you think a ravengram is more personal? I actually took the time to sit down and write something. Anybody can go to a florist.”

  “A ravengram is free, sister dear,” Lysergic declared. “Flowers aren’t. And let’s face it; you spend your money on … other things.”

  “What are you saying?” Gateway asked.

  Lysergic’s face turned pink, then red, then crimson. “What I’m saying,” she roared, “is that you’re a Godsdamn weedehead who’d rather have sex without protection so she can spit out another kid, which gives her yet another excuse to not visit her sister and her nephew!”

  “If your castle wasn’t located on the top of a mountain that’s on top of another m
ountain, maybe I’d come around more often! But it takes so Godsdamn long to get here that we had to consolidate the Godsdamn journey into a single Godsdamn paragraph!”

  “Selfish bitch!”

  “Elitist twat!”

  “Arrogant wench!”

  “Ugly snob!”

  Before Lysergic could call Gateway a putrid whore, Gateway wrapped her hands around her sister’s neck and squeezed, immediately after which Lysergic wrapped her hands around her sister’s neck.

  Tritone whispered to Burntsienna, “Jesus Chryst, these psycho hose beasts make my siblings look functional.”

  A screech was heard from the other side of the throne room. Lysergic stepped down on Gateway’s foot, and, after Gateway let go of Lysergic’s neck, she called, “Honey, come say hi to your auntie!”

  Clad in only a tiny codpiece, Lysergic’s son Little Lord Bobbby Aaron called, “You mean Auntie Shit Face?”

  Lysergic shrugged, then said, “Kids. I have no idea where they pick up this stuff. I’m sure yours are the exact same way.”

  “Not so much.” She kneeled down, held out her hands, and said, “Come to Auntie, Bobbby!”

  Bobbby sauntered toward Gateway, but before he made it over to his aunt, he came to a stop in front of Tritone and whispered, “You’re so tall!”

  “Oh yeah, Shecky? Well, you’re so short that you could walk under a snake while wearing a top hat.”

  “Oh yeah? Well … well … well, how’s the weather up there?”

  Tritone hocked a loogie on Bobbby’s head and said, “It’s raining. Zzzzzzing!”

  Wiping the spittle from his head, Bobbby turned to Lysergic and asked, “Can we cut the giant into little, teeny, tiny pieces, then throw them off the mountain so we can watch them fly?”

  Lysergic agreed, “I think that’s an excellent idea, son. Maybe we can do that to some other people, too.” Staring at Gateway, she asked, “Would you like to see your aunt fly, honey?”