MALIA
After being ignored by everybody in the book for days, Malia—who was sick to death of Cap Ceity and its moronic political infrastructure—decided to steal a horse and trek her own way back to Summerseve, unconcerned for her safety because she was a Barker, and Barkers were all about trekking safely to and from Summerseve.
There was, however, a problem with her plan: what with all the wars being fought, Cap Ceity was short on equines, so she decided to walk, figuring she could bum a ride along the way. (That would not be as difficult as it might sound, as this was Easterrabbit, and there was always somebody journeying from one place to another.) On her way out of town, Malia happened upon a mob, an angry mob, a mob she sensed was looking for blood. Considering her mood at the moment, bloodlust was something she could get behind.
The audience was facing some sort of makeshift stage, which Malia could not see, as she was really, really short. Her oversized suitcase in tow, she navigated her way through the crowd, toward the front. When she was halfway there, the crowd began to chant in unison: “House Barfonme rules! House Barker sucks direpanda cock! House Barfonme rules! House Barker sucks direpanda cock!”
After contemplating the fact that the denizens of Easterrabbit did a whole lot of unison chanting, she continued toward the front, her suitcase bashing annoyed mob members in the knees. Eventually she got close enough to see the stage to see what was going on … and she did not like it one bit.
King Goofrey stood next to Queen Cerevix Barfonme, who stood next to Sur Jagweed Sinister, who stood next to Sandstorm Leghorn, who stood next to Lord Headcase Barker. Cerevix stared at Goof with an annoyed look on her face. Goof stared at Head with a confused look on his face. Jagweed stared at Cerevix with a lustful look on his face. Sandstorm stared at Head with a violent look on his face. And Head stared at everybody with a pissed-off look on his face.
Queen Cerevix roared, “Lord Headcase Barker, have you anything to say before we execute you for reasons that are not quite clear or logical?”
“Gods yes, I have something to say: the rightful heir to the throne is Slobbert Barfonme! Goofrey Barfonme’s father is not Bobbert Barfonme, but rather it’s Tritone Sinister! Goof is the product of incest and should not be allowed to rule!”
The crowd was silent. And then there came a murmur. And then a wave of sound. And then, unsurprising to Malia, came yet another chant: “Incest is best! Incest is best! Incest is best!”
Head moaned, “Seriously?”
“Incest is best! Incest is best! Incest is best!”
“Really?”
“Incest is best! Incest is best! Incest is best!”
“Come on, now, people.”
“Incest is best! Incest is best! Incest is best!”
Anger welled up in Malia’s soul, an anger that tasted of blood and smelled of onions. She pulled Syringe from the side pouch of her suitcase and stabbed the man to her left 167 times, then the woman next to him double that, then the man next to her triple that. Malia’s killing spree would have continued had she not heard Queen Cerevix yell, “Sandstorm Leghorn, I order you to chop off the head of Headcase Barker.”
Leering at Head’s neck, Sandstorm growled, “With pleasure, Your Highness.” The three-armed man then unsheathed his sword and advanced on Head. As he wound up for the neck chop, Head kicked him in his stomach, then snatched his weapon.
Head kneeled down and roared, “If I am going to die, it is going to be on my terms! If I am going to die, it will be my way! If I am going to die, it will be by my hand! Summer is coming!” And then he stabbed himself in the midsection, and died a gruesome death that scarred his daughters for life.
The silence was deafening. After two minutes of utter quiet, King Goofrey Barfonme said, “Whoa. That sucked. I was totally gonna pardon him.”
SASHA
“Oh. My. Gods. This is, like, the grossest jail ever.”
The guard gazed impassively at Sasha Barker and said, “You’ve mentioned that.”
“I know, but it’s grosser than gross. Like, how do you deal?”
“I already told you,” the guard said with infinite patience, “I get paid.”
“I totally want to go home. If I show you one of my boobies, can you let me out?”
“I already told you, if you escape, the Barfonmes will have me killed.”
“Both boobies?” After the guard shook his head, Sasha added, “That’s, like, so rude. I totally hate the Barfonmes.”
From the opposite end of the corridor, a peevish voice called, “Do you hate all the Barfonmes?”
Sasha yelled, “I don’t want to see you, Goof! You suck to the max!”
Goof sashayed over to Sasha’s cell, dismissed the guard, and gloated, “I have a gift for you.” He pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.
If they were not coated with mud, they probably would have been the most beautiful flowers Sasha had ever seen, but she did not want to give Goof the satisfaction of seeing her smile, so she turned around and squealed, “Ewwwwwwww, those are grotty to the max. Take them away before I, like, throw up all over the place.”
Goof asked, “You don’t appreciate my flowers? Fine.” He sprinted away and returned a minute later with an ornate macaroni sculpture in tow. “I made it myself,” he explained. “It’s a bust of your head. I think it captures your true beauty.”
Sasha gave it a quick peek, then retorted, “I think it captures, like, your true lameness or something.”
Goof growled, then sprinted away and returned a minute later with a large painting in tow. “I also made this myself. It’s a self-portrait. It was going to be my wedding gift to you, but I want you to have it right now.”
Without giving the canvas a glance, Sasha said, “I want you to stick it up your butthole right now.”
“Okay, fine, watch this.” Goof then did seven push-ups, then puffed, “Pretty extraordinary, right?”
“Totally not extraordinary. You’re, like, way out of breath.”
“Okay, listen to this: Five plus five equals ten. Ten plus ten equals twenty. Twenty plus twenty equals forty. Are you impressed now?”
Sasha, who had no idea if Goof’s calculations were correct, sneered, “You totally got all those, like, wrong.”
“Aaaargh,” Goof moaned, then stomped away.
When the guard returned a bit later, Sasha asked, “If I show you one of my boobies, can you get me some Godsweede?”
Grinning, the guard said, “Now that I can do. And you save that boobie for the right guy, sweetheart.”
When Goof returned to the jail later that day, Sasha was thoroughly baked, and understood exactly why her mother was such a proponent of the pungent plant. “Gooooooooof,” she slurred, “I hate you sooooooo much.”
Puffing up his chest, Goof boasted, “Well, Sasha Barker, I’m about to show you something that’ll make you love me forever and ever.”
“Like, whatever.”
“Oh, you won’t be whatever-ing me when you see this,” Goof claimed, then called, “Sandstorm! Grandstand! Bring them in!” The Leghorn brothers marched in lockstep toward Sasha’s cell. In each hand, they held a long post, and at the top of each post sat a severed head. The heads were fresh, so fresh that the blood dripping from each was still warm. “This, my future bride, is what House Barfonme does to deserters. How cool is that?”
For a moment that seemed to go on forever, but was, in reality, about forty-five seconds, Sasha Barker gave King Goofrey Barfonme a look that could have frozen mud. Finally, finally, finally, Sasha broke the thick silence: “Oh. My. Gods. I, like, totally love you. Let’s, like, totally get married.”
And they lived happily ever after. Or at least for another book or two.
LOLYTA
“Don’t wake the ducks, Loly,” Vladymyr ordered. “If you have your baby, the ducks will awaken, and it’s very important that you do not, under any circumstances, awaken the ducks.”
“Why?” Lolyta Targetpractice asked. “What
happens if I wake the ducks?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Vladymyr simpered. “It won’t be pretty.”
Loly peered at Vladymyr’s face and declared, “You don’t know what’ll happen if I wake the ducks, do you?”
Vladymyr claimed, “I absolutely know what will happen if you wake the ducks.” After a lengthy staring contest, Vladymyr admitted, “Okay, fine, I don’t know what’ll happen if you wake the ducks.”
“I didn’t think so,” Loly said.
“But don’t you think just to play it safe, you shouldn’t wake the ducks? I mean, what do you gain by waking them? They’ll probably just make a mess, and this castle is fabulous. Do you want it covered with duck droppings?”
“Vladymyr, I miss you and all, but this dream is a total waste of time. I mean, there’s no correlation for it on the page or the small screen. I’m waking up.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” he said, “before you do, there’s something I should tell you: Never before has a Dorki mated with a human. Their bodies are not compatible. Your baby is going to have the head of a horse and the body of a human.”
Loly hissed, “Go away, Vladymyr. I’m waking up.”
* * *
And then she woke up.
When Loly regained her faculties, she was hungrier than she had been during her entire pregnancy. “Illinois,” she screeched, “I need food!”
Magistrate Illinois hustled into the KERBANGER’s bedchamber and asked, “What can I get you? Anything you want is yours.”
“I’m having cravings, Illinois. Pickles. A salt lick. Cheeze Whyz. Fried and oiled potatoes. You know, the kind of things that pregnant women all over Easterrabbit crave.”
Looking away, Magistrate said, “Yeah, about that. Here’s the thing…” And then she trailed off.
After a silent moment, Loly asked, “Here’s what thing?”
“Well, while you were asleep, you gave birth.”
“I what?!” She felt at her stomach, and sure enough, it was flat. “Where’s my baby?”
Looking away, Magistrate said, “Yeah, that’s the other thing…” And then she trailed off.
After two silent moments, Loly asked, “What other thing?”
“The baby had a horse’s head and a human’s body. The body couldn’t support the weight of the head, and, well, it wasn’t pretty. I’ll spare you the details.”
In a span of two minutes, KERBANGER Lolyta Targetpractice experienced every emotion in the spectrum: denial, anger, depression, acceptance, numbness, exhaustion, horror, shame, hunger, thirst, horniness, confusion, hunger again, anguish, more hunger, and then more hunger yet. When she felt somewhat composed, she took a deep breath and ordered Magistrate Illinois, “Bring me my eggs.”
Magistrate said, “Yes, KERBANGER.” She curtsied and left the room.
Off in the distance, Juan Nieve’s direpanda, Fourshadow, could be heard growling.
JUAN
The Wall had melted to the point that Juan Nieve could step over it without straining himself. The Others could probably do the same, but Juan was too overheated, overtired, and over-booted to care. As he tried to figure out his next move—Go home? Become one of the Others? Kill Otter and D-Day for sport?—he felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around and was greeted with the most repulsive sight of his life.
Despite the fact that they each had two arms, two legs, and heads with two eyes, one nose, and one mouth, the two beings were not men, but Juan thought that they might have been at one time. After all, despite their rotting limbs, they were able to move, and despite the oozing sores on their lips, they were able to speak.
“How’s it hanging, pal?” the taller being asked.
“How’s tricks?” the younger one queried.
“Um…”
The taller thing explained, “Listen, we won’t keep you. I’m Jarhead, and he’s Airhead, the two of us used to be Swatchmen, but we got murdered in the prologue, then reanimated by the Others…”
From the distance, a voice cried, “We’re not the Others! We’re the Awesomes, asshole!”
“… and then we dropped off the face of Easterrabbit, and we want to find out why.”
Despite their hideous appearance, Juan could hear the pathos in their voices, and he wanted to help. “There’s only one thing I can tell you, gentlemen: A veces en nuestro mundo, algo que ocurre, y nada se resuelve.”
In unison, Jarhead and Airhead asked, “What does that mean, jerkoff?”
“Sometimes in our world, little happens, and nothing is resolved.”
LOLYTA
Aside from Loly Targetpractice (aka Lolyta Tornadobutt, Princess of Duckseventually) walking into a raging campfire with her eggs balanced on her shoulders, and coming out of said fire with a bunch of baby ducklings in her hair—ducklings rather than baby dragons, mind you, and you should have seen that coming, because it had been foreshadowed for many, many chapters—little happened and nothing was resolved, but as was always the case when
You can read the remainder of that sentence and much, much more in A Crash of Bling: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot, Book 2, coming March 27, 2138.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank Benjamin R. R. Franklin, Thomas R. R. Jefferson, James R. R. Madison, Alexander R. R. Hamilton, John R. R. Adams, John R. R. Jay, and his beloved wife, Martha R. R. Washington.
The author also wishes to thank his editor, Peter R. R. Joseph, for his patience, his kindness, and his wisdom in advising him to trim 916 pages from the first draft of this book.
The author also wishes to thank everybody at St. Martin’s Press and Thomas Dunne Books, most notably Thomas R. R. Dunne, Margaret R. R. Smith, Loren R. R. Jaggers, and Joe R. R. Goldschein.
The author also wishes to thank his readers Susan R. R. Smith and Kush R. R. Mangat, who have ten or eleven more Sonnets of Slush and Soot to look forward to. Maybe twelve.
The author also wishes to thank his literary agent, Jason R. R. Allen R. R. Ashlock of Movable Type Management for his excellent swordsmanship, marksmanship, and penmanship.
The author also wishes to thank his other wife, Natale R. R. Rosenberg, for her love, support, and the mighty tasty direpandaburgers with grilled onions.
Finally, the author wishes to thank the wonderful, kind, handsome, brilliant, adorable, handsome, hilarious, handsome, handsome, charming gentleman who made this all possible—the man of the hour, who makes the ladies wanna shower—Alan R. R. Goldsher. Here’s mud in your eye, and an onion in your mouth.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
George R. R. Washington may be related to our country’s founding father. And he might live in Chicago with his lovely wife, Natalie. Or he might not. He won’t return our calls.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any resemblances to fictional characters are intentionally parodic.
This book has not been prepared, authorized, licensed, approved, or endorsed by any person or entity involved in creating or producing any of the Song of Ice and Fire books or the Game of Thrones television program.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
A GAME OF GROANS. Copyright © 2012 by St. Martin’s Press. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
ISBN 978-1-250-01126-8 (trade paperback)
eISBN 9781250011251
First Edition: April 2012
1. Thank you, Father.
2. My Gods, Father. (Now that you know what padre means, we’ll stop footnoting that word.)
3. Very. Duh.
4. Holy shitballs.
5. Gods. (You should have this one down, too.)
6. The biggest, hugest, smelliest.
7. Please. (Spanish 101. We shouldn’t have to translate this one for you, but we figure since you bought this book, you shouldn’t ha
ve to think that hard.)
8. Dumbass. Or something like that.
9. Dude. I think.
10. Nothing. Duh.
11. Funny dude. Or something like that.
12. Dummy. (But he said it nicely, because he likes Malia, and vice versa. Isn’t that sweet?)
13. Correct. Duh.
14. Whiny little bitch.
15. Idiot. That wasn’t the word Juan was looking for, but apparently there’s no Spanish translation for “ditz.” If you know of one, please contact us at [email protected].
16. Hell. (So dramatic. So very, very dramatic.)
17. Sorta-kinda brother.
18. Insert your own epithet. The more vulgar, the better.
19. How are you, jerkoff?
20. Stud cakes.
21. My bad.
22. Hells to the yeah, bitch!
23. Blowing my mind.
24. Blowing my cock.
25. Poopy.
26. My bad again.
27. Wow.
28. My bad again again.
29. Asshole.
30. Fuck your mother. (Normally that would be one of the most offensive insults known to mankind, but in Easterrabbit—the home of fucking one’s mother—it’s practically a compliment.)
31. I shit in your whore mother’s milk. (That’s a good one, isn’t it?)
32. Oy vey.
A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot Page 22
