A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot

by George R. R. Washington

  After Tritone recovered, he asked to go again, but the woman whispered they only paid for one pop, and it was time for them to go. He threw on his clothes, and the three Sinisters walked out of the cathouse arm-in-arm-in-arm, one happy family.

  Nine months later, Cerevix Sinister Barfonme gave birth to her only son, Goofrey Barfonme.

  * * *

  Tritone’s eyes popped open, and a hopeful mantra drifted through his head: It was just a dream … I didn’t sleep with my sister … I’m not my nephew’s father … It was just a dream … I didn’t sleep with my sister … I’m not my nephew’s father …

  “Did you say something?”

  Tritone spun around, and there was Burntsienna, giving him a strange look. He claimed, “Just clearing my throat, Shecky. Let’s get out of here. This patch of woods is so ugly that … that … that…” And for the second time in the book, Tritone was so disconcerted that he could not finish the joke.

  LOLYTA

  Lolyta Targetpractice was not enjoying her pregnancy, not one bit. Sure, her skin glowed, and sure, it was nice to have Magistrate Illinois tell her that her child is going to be “The Duck Who Quacks Like No Other,” and sure, it was nice to be thirteen and pregnant, just like the vast majority of her fellow Easterrabbitarian thirteen-year-olds, but the vomiting, the constant urination, and the nonstop cravings for oats and carrots drove her to distraction.

  Ivan Drago seemed to like the lump in her midsection, as born out by the fact that he took her to the center of town to have sex three times a day instead of the typical two. Those who watched Loly and Ivan Drago do their thing had taken to chanting throughout the act; their cries of KER-BANG-ER! KER-BANG-ER! could be heard from the rivers to the mountains. Thanks to the ducklike pregnancy and the incessant outdoor lovemaking, Loly had become the most beloved KERBANGER in Dork’s long history. But not everybody was enamored with the ruler.

  “You have become so conceited,” Vladymyr ranted. “You think you’re Miss Thing, but the fact is, you’re a hot mess. And can we talk about that top you’ve got on? Two words, darling: Puh-leez. All I see is tits and gut, tits and gut, tits and gut. Cover that stuff up, girlfriend.”

  By now, Loly was immune to her brother’s clothing suggestions, so she addressed the one thing that had been bothering her for days: “Vladymyr, are you wearing makeup?”

  He touched his face, pursed his lips, and purred, “So what if I am? I’m fabulous, and this just brings out my fabulousness.”

  By now, Loly was immune to her brother’s incessant need to call himself fabulous, so she addressed the one thing that had been bothering her for months: “Vladymyr, are you gay?”

  Vladymyr Targetpractice looked to the floor, shuffled his feet, and croaked, “So what if I am?”

  “Frankly, brother dear, if you are, I think it would be better for everybody if you admitted it.”

  “Why?” he asked, still staring at the floor.

  “Because you don’t need to spend your life hiding. Your family will always love you, no matter what.” She stepped down from the throne, put her hand on his cheek, and whispered, “I’ll always love you.”

  He met her eyes, and she noticed that a single tear had cut a path in his makeup. Clearing his throat, Vladymyr admitted, “I’m gay.” And then he smiled, and repeated, “I’m gay!” And then one more time: “I’m totally, totally gay!”

  With a spring in his step that Loly had never before seen, Vladymyr ran from the castle and skipped across town crying, “I’m gay, Dork, I’m gay!” With each skip, more and more Dorkis followed him, and they took up the chant: KER-BANG-ER’s brother is here! KER-BANG-ER’s brother is queer! Get used to it! Loly and Vladymyr were so caught up in the moment they did not consider the fact that the Dorki population was forming a complete English sentence, with nary an ooga or a booga to be seen.

  Once the Targetpractices, accompanied by Magistrate Illinois, made it to the center of town, Ivan Drago picked up Vladymyr and tossed him in the air in such a manner that he landed on the man/horse’s back. “Ooga booga! Let’s celebrate KERBANGER’S brother’s coming out of the closet! Ooga booga! A grand feast for all at Javytz! Ooga booga!”

  As they galloped over to the Javytz Conventyn Centyr on the Eastern outskirts of Dork, Vladymyr asked Ivan Drago, “Hey, Big Sexy, when did you guys learn to talk for real?”

  Coughing, Ivan Drago asked, “What do you mean? Oonga boonga, boonga oonga?”

  Chuckling knowingly, Vladymyr uttered, “Your secret is safe with me.”

  It seemed like the entire population of Dork was waiting for the Targetpractices at the Centyr, waiting with a sense of anticipation that was palpable. There was singing, and dancing, and neighing, and ooga booging; all in all, it was the most festive, flamboyant celebration that this book had ever seen. On the far end of the room, there was a large, raised stage on which sat a boiling cauldron. Ivan Drago pointed at the pot and roared, “Boogie googie foogie gold!”

  Illinois explained to Loly and Vladymyr, “They’re making a golden statue of Vladymyr. Apparently he’s the first human to declare his homosexuality in the history of Dork, and the horse-people—a good number of whom are either gay or bi—are quite impressed.” She paused, then added, “FYI, they’re probably going to want Vladymyr to have sex in the middle of the city, in full view of everybody.”

  Vladymyr leered, “Honey, I’m counting down the seconds.”

  Ivan Drago tapped Vladymyr on the shoulder and gestured to the stage. “Wowie wowie woo woo woo.”

  Illinois translated, “He wants you to go stand by the pot, so the master Dorki sculptor can replicate you.”

  With a grin that could melt an onion, Vladymyr lisped, “Ssssssssuper,” and navigated his way to the other side of the room. He jumped up onto the stage and jogged to the cauldron, then tripped on his shoelace and fell in.

  Over the crowd’s deafening silence, the master sculptor reached into the pot and gently pulled out the KERBANGER’s brother, who was completely encased in bright, gleaming gold. Everything about the statue was undeniably breathtaking—the detail was astounding, naturally—but its most notable feature was the beatific, contented smile frozen on the face of Vladymyr Targetpractice.

  As Loly stared at her brother’s lifeless yet life-affirming grin, she thought, I should probably go check in on my eggs. I haven’t mentioned them in a bunch of chapters, and they might be ready to hatch.

  HEADCASE

  Lord Headcase Barker asked Tinyjohnson, “Why doesn’t anybody just admit it?”

  “I told you,” the possible eunuch answered, “because there’s nothing to admit.”

  “For Gods’ sake, just call a spade a spade already!” Head demanded.

  “I shall do no such thing. You can yell at me all you want to, but my answer shall not change.”

  “Tinyjohnson, look at this thing,” Head ordered, then rose from the throne. “It’s a toilet, pure and simple. There’s a ring, and a hole, and I’m pretty sure I can see a tampon in there.”

  “That is not a tampon, m’Lord. That’s, um, that’s a magical ruby.”

  “A magical ruby, eh? Seems to me that it’s silly for a ruby to sit at the bottom of a”—here he did finger quotes—“‘throne,’ so maybe you should reach in and grab it. As acting King, I give you permission to sell it and keep the profits.”

  Tinyjohnson cleared his throat, then claimed, “I am perfectly solvent, m’Lord. No need for me to take something that doesn’t belong to me.”

  Head removed his ridiculous temporary crown—it was made from a thick type of paper, and imprinted with the words Burgyr Kyng—tossed it across the room, then said, “Let’s get this thing started. What is it called again?”

  “A town hall meeting, m’Lord.”

  “Right. How does it work?”

  “Simple. Any resident of Capaetal Ceity can approach the King—or, in this case, the acting King—and ask for aid or advice for their problems.”

  “That doesn’t sound
too bad. Send in the first favor-asker!”

  A strapping young man without a shirt approached the throne. “Good morning, Lord Barker. I am Anklebracelet Beetbox of Gigglesworth Road. The front yard of my house is covered with mud. I’m hoping you can help.”

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Beetbox, but the front yard of everybody’s house is covered with mud.”

  “But I’m more special than everybody.” He pointed at his stomach, then boasted, “I mean, look at this six-pack. These abs deserve the royal treatment.”

  Head leaned over to Tinyjohnson and whispered, “How would Bobbert handle something like this?”

  Tinyjohnson whispered back, “Depends on his mood. Good mood, ask him politely to leave. Bad mood, hit him with a raven.”

  “Do we have any ravens?” Head asked.

  “No,” Tinyjohnson claimed.

  Head turned to Beetbox and said, “I will politely ask you to leave. Good day, sir.”

  Beetbox jeered, “You suck, Barker,” then strolled from the room.

  The next favor-asker entered, a pretty, round-faced woman with a remarkably ugly baby. “Good morning, Lord Barker. I am Wilhelmina Concertina of Ringworm Road, and this is my child, Dilbert.”

  Head leaned forward and patted Dilbert on the noggin. “My, such a lovely child,” he fibbed.

  “Please, m’Lord,” Wilhelmina countered, “let’s be honest here: This is the ugliest baby in Cap Ceity. I’d like to trade it in for something more attractive.”

  “Um, I’m afraid that’s impossible. Your child is your child.”

  Ignoring Head, Wilhelmina continued, “I tried to shove him back up there, because I thought maybe if he cooked some more, he’d turn out tastier. But either he was too big, or I was too small. Or maybe it was both, I don’t know. Point is, I’m wondering if you have any cute babies hiding somewhere in the castle.”

  “We don’t have any cute babies hiding in the castle. I will politely ask you to leave. Good day, ma’am.”

  After she was gone, Tinyjohnson said, “You’re a natural, m’Lord. I believe we only have one hundred seventy-three people left.”

  Over the next eight hours, Headcase had requests for new houses, new wives, new horses, new clothes, new onions, new sequels, and something called a nuclear-powered Gantry robot. Unable to grant a single request, he was depressed and grouchy, so he turned to Tinyjohnson and asked, “Since I’m the King, can I make a decree?”

  “Of course.”

  “Great. I decree that whoever brings me the head of Jagweed Sinister receives one million dollars.”

  “That might not be a good idea, m’Lord. Sur Jagweed is the Queen’s brother. That’s the kind of rash decision that could get you murdered.”

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

  SASHA

  “Oh. My. Gods. I, like, totally hate you! Totally!”

  “I hate you more!” Malia Barker told her sister.

  “Well, I hated you first, because I’m, like, older!” Sasha Barker simpered.

  “And stupider.”

  “Whatever. I’m totally smarter than you.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s five plus three?”

  “Fifty-three. Like, duh.”

  Malia shook her head and grumbled, “Yep, you’re a regular Einstein, Sash.”

  “A regular what-stein?”

  “Forget it.”

  Sasha claimed, “If you don’t tell me what a mine-stein is, I’m totally tattling on you.”

  “Oh, that’s real mature, Miss Older Sister,” Malia sneered.

  Sasha opened the bedroom door and yelled, “Daaaaaaaad! Malia’s being mean! Again!”

  Malia then yelled, “Daaaaaaaad! Sasha’s being an idiot! Again!”

  Headcase roared, “It’s midnight! Both of you pipe down and go to sleep.”

  Sasha called, “She totally started it!”

  Head stomped down the hall into the girls’ room. “Started what?”

  Turning to Malia, Sasha asked, “Like, what did you start?”

  Malia scratched her head, then noted, “I don’t remember.”

  “Gods almighty,” Head growled. “You two are driving me nuts, and exchanges like this—and there are too Godsdamn many of them—bring this Godsdamn story to a Godsdamn grinding halt, and the last Godsdamn thing we need in this Godsdamn story is a Godsdamn grinding halt! So pack up your things! You’re going back to Summerseve tomorrow! I’ll let Bobb deal with this garbage.” And then he stomped away.

  Sasha whispered to Malia, “He’s been totally grouchy since he got into the poo fight with Jagweed.”

  “Totally,” Malia agreed.

  HEADCASE

  Lord Headcase Barker felt horrible about yelling at Sasha and Malia, but the pressure of being a King—even for a day—was weighing on him. After he finished with the girls, he found himself in desperate need of grog; being that he was in Bobbert Barfonme’s house, he figured finding libations would not be a problem.

  He was wrong. After an hour-long hunt, Head determined that Bobbert had either hidden the grog in some secret compartment, or had drunk every last drop. Irked and on edge, Head walked back to his room, opened the drawer of his nightstand, and pulled out the last of the heroyne.

  Recalling the manner in which Bobbert had ingested the powder, Head took a tiny pinch, brought it to his nostril, and took a tentative sniff, then climbed in the bed with his head in the clouds, and was gone.

  * * *

  It was hot, hotter than the hottest of Summers. The mud was gone, and in its place, sand, miles and miles of sand, sand as far as the eye could see, the nose could smell, and the ear could hear. Head walked through the desert, naked and sweating, at once feeling light and heavy, black and white, awake and exhausted. He came across a man, a dark-skinned man cloaked in a multicolored blanket, a feathered headdress atop his skull.

  Head asked the man, “Do you have a message for me?”

  The man regarded Head with a skeptical eye for what seemed like hours, then droned, “You are a Caucasian man amongst Caucasian men, yet you are a fighter amongst fighters. You are ready now. You have always been ready. You have never been ready. Go out and stroll with the misery of the Earth. Stroll to the end of the hurricane and break it for all, as you were meant to do. You are the Stone of Oliver. You are the Kilmer from Val. You are the King. The temporary King. The Lizard King.”

  Staring into the dark man’s eyes, Head was overcome with a sense of peace unlike anything he had ever experienced. A light called him from above, and as Head floated toward it, the sense of calm tripled, as did the size of his erection. The light kept calling, and calling, and calling …

  * * *

  “I’ve been calling and calling and calling, and you haven’t answered, and I was worried. Are you alright, Head?”

  Head grunted, then groaned, then moaned, then belched, then said, “What’re you doing here, Queen? And what are you wearing?”

  Cerevix looked down at her body, blinked, and chirped, “Ooh, goodness gracious me, it appears that I’m wearing nothing.” Sighing, she added, “Bobbert hasn’t seemed too impressed with this, and it makes me lonely. So I ask, Mr. Temporary King: Do you like what you see? And do you want to keep me company?”

  “We’ve been down this road before, Cerevix, and if I was so inclined, I’d tell the story via flashback, but it wasn’t that great, so why bother?”

  “It was great for me,” she purred. “You sure lived up to your name, Head.” She hopped onto the bed, straddled him, then breathed, “Ooh, goodness gracious me, it appears that somebody’s ready for action.”

  “That was here before you showed up, Cerevix.” He could not, however, deny the fact that the Queen’s grinding felt magnificent. Head felt his willpower drain away, and, against the King’s specific wishes, he touched her boobies.

  The faster she grinded, the louder her noises became; after several minutes, her grunts became full words: “Yes … yes … righ
t there … that’s it, baby … oh, wow … you’re so hard, Jagweed…” At that, Head shoved her off. “Hey, I wasn’t finished,” she complained. Gesturing at the clean sheets, she added, “And apparently neither were you.”

  “We’re done here, Cerevix. Go back to your room, please.”

  Cerevix pouted. “This was because I called you Jagweed, wasn’t it?”

  “To quote my oldest daughter: Duh!”

  “What’s the problem, Heady? You’re well aware that’s the way us Sinisters do these things. We keep it in the family. This has been going on for, what, like ten generations now. We’re about three generations away from becoming a master race.”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t think, sweet cheeks, I know.”

  “What about Goofrey?” Head asked. “That kid’s not exactly master race material.”

  “Ah, right, Goof, that’s a whole other story. You’ll find out about him in the not-too-distant future.”

  “I don’t really care to find out about Goof, Cerevix.”

  As she slinked from the room, she sang, “Oh, you’ll care soon enough, Heady. You most certainly will.”

  JUAN

  Juan Nieve, Snackwell Fartly, Otter, Pinto, Bluto, Flounder, and D-Day became sworn members of the Fraternity of the Swatch in a long, boring ceremony that can be explained via another of those awkward metaphors that populate these pages: Ever watched Anymal Housse while sipping on grog, gnawing on a turkey leg, and rubbing a cheese grater across your stomach? It was a lot like that.

  HEADCASE

  King Bobbert Barfonme staggered into the throne room, puddles of blood and bodily fluids spurting from dozens, if not hundreds, of wounds that dotted his entire body. Lord Headcase Barker hopped off the royal toilet—er, the royal throne—and ran to his friend, managing to catch him before he fell to the floor.