A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot

by George R. R. Washington

  HEADCASE

  Tinyjohnson offered to accompany Head back to Summerseve, but the ex-Foot was sick of the sight of the possible eunuch, so he traveled home all by himself. Before he took to the road, he ravengrammed Maester Blaester, telling him to send a posse to retrieve the girls, explaining that he needed some “me time,” and what better time for “me time” than a lengthy journey from one House to another?

  When Head crossed the border out of Capaetal Ceity, he heard a cry from ahead: “Lord Barker, I request the honor of a battle!”

  Head cried back, “Since when is a battle an honor?”

  “You’re right! That was weird! It sounded better in my head! Let me try again: Lord Barker, you have wronged my family! Thanks to an anonymous ravengram, I have learned that Lady Barker is holding my brother prisoner for reasons that were not made clear, so to avenge Tritone’s incarceration, I request the pleasure of murdering you!” He paused, then added, “And yes, I know Tritone’s an idiot, but he’s family, so whatever.”

  Head sighed, “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. The Not-Kingslayer never jokes. I mean, look at me: I have a blond mane that looks great on the tube, and muscles on top of muscles, and a jawline that won’t stop. I get more mentions on blogs than any of the secondary characters, except for maybe that Vladymyr jerk, but whatever. Point is, I don’t need to joke.”

  “Okay, Jagweed, show yourself.” On one hand, Head was irked that his “me time” was being usurped by a snot like Jagweed Sinister, but on the other, he knew he could beat the tar out of the incestuous fop without breaking a sweat.

  Perched on top of a white stallion that Head thought was far too beautiful for the likes of a sister-screwing moron, Jagweed called, “Here I am, Lord Barker. Now hop off your steed and draw your steel. As I am a gentleman, you may have first thrust.”

  Head called, “Isn’t that what you told Cerevix last night?”

  His face reddening, Jagweed jumped off his horse and gritted, “That, Lord Barker, was your first thrust.”

  Head dismounted, then reached for his sword and came up with nothing. Godsdamn it, he thought, it’s still stuck in the wall of Bobbert’s throne room. “Listen, Jagweed, I left my steel in my other burlap pants. I’d love to kill you in a painful, painful fashion, so can I take a rain check?”

  “Request denied, Lord Barker. The battle has been declared. But as I am a gentleman, I will not engage in a battle in which the combatants do not have the same weapon.” He placed his sword on the muddy ground and asked, “Any ideas?”

  Head looked around, then offered, “Sticks?”

  Jagweed noted, “Nah. Too Tolkienesque.”

  “Tree branches?”

  “Too hard to reach.”

  “Mud?”

  “Too humdrum.”

  “Snowballs?”

  “Too late in the season.”

  Just then, he heard a wet splat that sounded as if it originated behind his horse. He grinned, then said, “Equine droppings?”

  Jagweed grinned right on back. “Perfect. Go on my count: One … two…” Before he could say three, Headcase Barker sprinted toward his horse. “Come on, Lord Barker,” the Not-Kingslayer whined, “you weren’t supposed to go until three. That’s not fair. Just because you’re a Lord doesn’t mean you get to…”

  Jagweed was unable to complete the sentence because Head threw a massive ball of manure that landed directly in Sinister’s open mouth. Jagweed spit the crap onto the ground, then retrieved it, molded it into a tight ball, and tossed it at Head’s head. After a neat duck and roll, Head took another handful of poo from behind his horse and sidearmed it at Jagweed’s knee, hoping the incest-er would fall onto the ground mouth-first and drown in mud. With surprising quickness and skill, Jagweed slid to his left and avoided the ca-ca. Noticing that his horse hadn’t excreted since the battle began, Jagweed reached his hand up the steed’s anus and extricated several handfuls of turds.

  Head ran behind his animal, knelt down, and began fashioning large pellets from the feces. Jagweed, however, had the same idea, and when Head peered around his horse, he was pelted with ten well-aimed guano slugs. I’m old, Head thought. Two Summers ago, this battle would have been over, and Jagweed would be so full of shit that the whites of his eyes would have been brown. But now Head had to rely on his wits and experience.

  After surveying the field of battle (such as it was), Head concluded that his best option would be a quick frontal attack—hit him hard, and hit him fast. He picked up his dung balls, took a deep breath, and, with a wordless scream, jumped out from behind his horse and charged the Not-Kingslayer.

  Before Lord Headcase Barker took his fifth step toward Jagweed Sinister, a pain and stench worse than anything he’d ever experienced overtook him, and the world went black. The next he awoke, he was in a small, dark room, lying in a bed, a needle stuck in his arm, and a pile of white powder on his pillow. Before he fell into oblivion, a single thought drifted through Head’s overtaxed brain: Summer is coming.

  ALLBRAN

  “My balance is fine, Bobb. I don’t need any of this stuff,” Allbran carped.

  Bobb Barker was fastening Allbran’s makeshift leg brace to the horse’s saddle. “Yes, you do,” he growled, “because if you fall off of this thing and further injure yourself, Mother would never let me hear the end of it. I can hear her now: If you can’t take care of your brother, how could you expect to take care of House Barker, blah blah blah.”

  “There’s no way I can further injure myself, Bobb, because I’m not injured in the first place,” Allbran explained with a high-pitched fart.

  “If you’re going to ride on this horse,” Bobb sneered, “you’re going to be glued to this horse. If you don’t like it, well, I’m sure Dickoff would love to work on his dressage.”

  Allbran growled, “I hate you, Bobb.” Then he called, “Hinky, come!” Allbran’s direpanda—who had grown considerably in the last dozen or so chapters—loped over to the horse, his tongue hanging pinkly from his mouth. Pointing at Bobb, Allbran added, “Hinky, attack!”

  Bobb then called, “Blinky, come!” And then Bobb’s direpanda, who we have yet to meet, ran over and head-butted Hinky into tomorrow. Fortunately, tomorrow came early, so Hinky shoved Blinky across the lawn, where he lost his balance and fell into a mud puddle. Hinky seemed to laugh, which angered Blinky, but before he could again attack, he appeared to join his direpanda brother in a chuckle. The two direpandas then put their arms around each other and wandered off to the East.

  Allbran and Bobb stared at each other, then Bobb sputtered, “Okay, since I’m in charge here, I make the decisions, and my decision is to track down those Godsdamn bears.”

  “Good to see you’re prepared to make those tough choices, Bobb,” Allbran said.

  “Hey, no lip out of you, kid. My next decision is that we separate. You go North, I go South.”

  Allbran pointed out, “But Hinky and Blinky went East.”

  “Shut up, gimp!” Bobb roared. “I’m in charge, and I’m a Godsdamn tactical genius, and I say you go North, and that’s all there is to it!” He then smacked Allbran’s horse on its hindquarters, and the beast took off to the North, then, once it sensed Bobb was not paying attention, turned to the East.

  Allbran scratched the horse behind its ear and grinned. “Atta boy. That’s a good horse.”

  The horse mumbled, “Your brother’s a douche. And try not to fart on my back, please.”

  “What?” Allbran screamed.

  “I mean, neigh, neigh, neigh!”

  Several miles later, seven horses and their respective riders emerged from behind a cluster of trees, their animals in a triangular formation. The lead rider pointed at Allbran and roared, “Who art thou?! And why art thou trespassing upon mine forest?! Trespassers die!”

  “I art Allbran Barker of the House Barker! Who art thou? And why art we speaking like this?”

  One of the riders in the second row said to the leader, “Now that�
�s a damn good question, Brian. I thought we decided that Shakespearean crap was out.”

  Brian said, “You hath made that decision. I hath not agreed.”

  Another rider pointed out, “We voted, Brian. You lost. Deal with it.”

  Yet another rider claimed, “This is why we still don’t have a name. Nobody can make a decision, and when a decision is actually made, nobody abides by it.”

  “I declare the name hath been decided,” Brian declared, “and that name is the Sharks!”

  Yet another rider insisted, “No, Brian, we’re not the Sharks. Three of us voted for Sharks, and three of us voted for Jets, and Warren abstained.”

  Warren, the smallest of the riders, said, “Get off my back. They’re both good.”

  Brian commanded, “Maketh a decision, Warren. Thou art holding up our jacket order.”

  “Thou art being an wiener,” Warren pointed out.

  Just then, Hinky and Blinky trotted over, covered in mud, tongues hanging out. Brian stared wide-eyed at the animals and asked Allbran, “Art those direpandas?”

  “Yep, they sure art.”

  “Methinks that direpandas are extinct.”

  “Nope, they sure aren’t.”

  “Methinks the Sharks should kill young Barker, then vacate the premises. And quickly.” To Allbran, he explained, “We art deathly allergic to direpandas. Yes, we know that up until several chapters ago, direpandas were extinct, so it might seem odd that we know we’re allergic, but it’s probably best if you don’t ask too many questions, because frankly, Easterrabbit is in danger of overstaying its welcome. At some point, the story has to end … especially when there are so many rambling monologues. Like this one.”

  Allbran asked, “Will you not kill me if I call them off?”

  “You hath control over the beasts?” Brian asked.

  “Sure,” Allbran lied.

  “Then we shall let you live. Tell thine beasts to depart!”

  “You got it.” He called, “Hinky! Blinky! Take a hike!”

  At the sound of the familiar voice, Hinky and Blinky hopped toward Allbran, stopping on their way over to give a loving lick to each and every one of the Sharks/Jets. The second the direpanda saliva touched the riders’ bodies, their skin melted, then they fell off their horses, and died a painful, ugly, foamy death. Hinky and Blinky high-fived each other, then hopped off to wherever it is that adolescent direpandas hop off to.

  Allbran was so distracted by the bubbling corpses that he did not notice his brother’s arrival. “What the hell, Allbran!” Bobb exclaimed. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you run into this? Seriously, Mom’s going to freak. What happened?” After Allbran related the story of Hinky and Blinky’s killer spit, Bobb pointed at the dead bodies and mused, “Holy Gods, I’ve heard about these guys. These were some bad, bad men.” He scratched his chin, then thought aloud, “If I can have these ass-clowns on my resume…” and trailed off.

  “What do you mean,” Allbran asked, “‘on my resume’?”

  “Quiet, kid,” Bobb commanded, then jumped off his horse, unsheathed his sword, and stabbed each and every one of the dead men until his weapon was covered with their blood.

  The two brothers silently stared at the bodies for a couple of minutes, then Allbran asked, “So, um, what was that all about?”

  “As far as you know, I killed those gangsters fair and square. And if you say anything differently, well, if you think you’re in pain now, well, phew!”

  “Bobb,” Allbran complained, “I’m not in pain.”

  “Yes, you are!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are!”

  “Nope. Not even a little bit.”

  “Yes, you are, and I’m in charge, and my word is law, and you were hurt worse than anybody’s ever been hurt, and I’m going to protect you from more hurt!”

  “Okay, okay, okay, fine, I’m hurt. Ouch. Ow. Such pain, such pain.”

  Bobb smiled. “There, there, Allbran. I’ll protect you. Because I’m in charge.”

  “Of course you are, Bobb,” Allbran agreed, “of course you are,” then directed his horse back to the castle, secretly thrilled that he was only going to appear in two more chapters.

  JUAN

  “Broheim Otter, I hate to complain, but might it be too hot for a campfire?”

  Otter glared at Snackwell Fartly and sneered, “Maybe if you weren’t carrying around so much tonnage, you wouldn’t be schvitzing like a Frenchman.”

  “What-ing like a what?” Juan Nieve asked. Before Otter could answer, Juan added, “It’s muy caliente44 out here, Otter. Admit it.”

  “But it’s also dark,” opined Pinto. “And I don’t know about you guys, but I prefer to have some light when we’re this close to the Wall.”

  Bluto pointed out, “I hate to admit it, boys, but the jerkoff here might have a point. The Wall’s puddling up like crazy, and we’re making things hotter.”

  D-Day gestured to Snack and offered, “If you’re worried about the Wall melting, we could always use fatso-comic-relief-metaphor-boy over here to plug up the holes.”

  Juan butted in, “Gentlemen, is this what a Frat’s about? Pointing out your Broheims’ faults, and making fun of their questionable parentage? Is that why you’re all here? Is that what you left your families for? To tease and complain? Repugnante,45 simply repugnante.”46

  “It’s okay, Juan,” Snack sighed. “I’m used to it. Back at home, everybody would…”

  “Guys,” Otter interrupted, “I’m bored as hell, it’s still muddy, the Wall is still melting, Snack’s still fat, Juan’s still a jerkoff, and nothing’s happening. How about we wrap it up here and see what Tritone’s up to?”

  Juan smiled. “Otter, that’s the first intelligent thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. Estimados lectores, por favor disfrute el siguiente capítulo, un capítulo que incluye, entre otras cosas, una conversación fascinante entre Tritone y Lysergic.”47

  TRITONE

  From the floor of his jail cell, Tritone Sinister called to the guard, “Hey, tall, dark, and ugly, when am I getting out of here? This place smells so bad it’d make a skunk gag.”

  The guard sauntered over and demanded, “Wait, you’re calling me ugly? You?! This coming from a guy who’s so skinny that he uses dental floss as toilet paper?”

  “Whoa, great spritz! You and me, we’re two peas in a pod. Granted, if we’re hanging out together in a pod, people would have trouble telling your face apart from my ass. Zzzzzzing!”

  Chuckling, the guard explained, “Nice one, stretch. Listen, if it were up to me, you could leave right now, but Lady Lysergic wants you to confess to your crimes.”

  “Crimes? Brother, the only crime I’ve committed is joke plagiarism.” He paused, then asked, “Wait, did I say that out loud? I meant parody. Joke parody.”

  “Well,” the guard elucidated, “that’s not what the Lady says. She thinks you killed Functionary.”

  “Fantastic,” Tritone grumbled, annoyed that this was the second time he had been framed in the book, and curious as to which of his idiot relatives killed Lord Functionary Aaron. It was probably Jagweed and Cerevix, he thought. You can never overestimate the stupidity of one blonde person, but if you multiply that times two, you’re looking at a level of idiocy that could … well … that could have them ruling Easterrabbit. Aaaaaaand there’s your motive. “So let me get this straight, Shecky,” Tritone continued. “If I confess to some crimes, they’ll let me out of this dump?” After the guard nodded, he continued, “Okay, pal, you tell that crazy Aaron broad I’m going to confess like nobody’s ever confessed. I’m gonna confess my ass off to the point that I’ll need a new ass.”

  Ten minutes later, Tritone was in the Aaron throne room, standing in front of Lysergic Bully Aaron, Gateway Bully Barker, and Sur Crayola Burntsienna. “Well, well, well.” The giant smiled. “If it isn’t the law firm of Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe.” After the three gave him a blank stare, he mumbled, “To
ugh crowd. Anyhow, word is if I confess to some stuff, I can go blow this pop stand.”

  “That is correct, giant,” Lysergic explained. “You are accused of the successful murder of Lord Functionary Aaron, and the botched murder of Allbran Barker. Do you confess to your crimes?”

  “Honey, I’ve got plenty of crimes to confess to. First confession—and this was a true crime—I produced Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants.”

  “What?” Lady Aaron asked.

  “The worst crime of Stevie Wonder’s career. I also confess to producing every Nickelback album. Chryst, I should be executed for those things alone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, me neither. Seriously, how that band has a record deal, I have no idea. I also confess to producing Peter Criss’s solo album, everything by Creed, the Black Eyed Peas’ later stuff, most of that boy-band crap, Liz Phair’s self-titled set, Lil Wayne’s Rebirth—man, that thing was an abortion—this Nine Inch Nails remix album that I forget the name of, Madonna’s Who’s That Girl, and Lady Gaga’s Born This Way.” He paused, then added, “Wow, it’s great to get that off my chest.” He clapped once, then grinned. “So. Where’s my ride?”

  Lysergic growled, “Confess to killing Functionary.”

  “Couldn’t have killed him if I tried. That guy wields a bat like no other, plus, good luck trying to get a slider by him.”

  Lysergic frowned, “What do you mean, wields a bat? And what’s a slider?”

  “It’s one of those Godsdamn lost baseball jokes. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Believe me, I won’t. Now confess to trying to kill Allbran.”

  “Didn’t do that, either, but I had to be accused, or else this whole house of cards would’ve come crashing down, and you’d be looking at a short story, rather than a series of cash-cow novels. And when I say cash-cow, I ain’t talkin’ no bull. Ch-ching!”