The Dork Knight

by Roy L. Hinuss

  And before Carlos could climb off the pink saddle, Smudge was snoring. Wisps of orange flame flickered from the dragon’s nostrils.

  A crowd of ten thousand people, Carlos thought again.

  “WOO!” came a cheer from the rusty bleachers. It was only one voice—not ten thousand—but it was a voice that mattered.

  “You killed the heck out of that fruit!” Pinky shouted. “You killed that fruit DEAD!”

  Carlos smiled. He clunked and clattered over to where she sat.

  “I’ve been drawing you,” Pinky said.

  “Can I see?”

  She handed over her sketchpad. Carlos was amazed by what he saw. The way Pinky could show action and movement in a still drawing was remarkable.

  And it was a drawing of him! A bold, armor-clad blur atop a galloping dragon.

  “Wow,” Carlos said. “You make me look…”

  “Like a jouster?” Pinky said.

  “I was going to say heroic. You make me look heroic.”

  Pinky smiled a little, but only a little. Then she shrugged. “They’re pretty good action drawings.” She took the pad back from Carlos. “But I still haven’t captured the inner you.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “No,” she said, “but I will.”

  Carlos heard another voice behind him.

  “So! How’s the jousting coming along?” King Carmine asked.

  “Hey, Dad!” Carlos replied. “I think I’m doing pretty well.”

  Pinky agreed—only more so. “Carlos is kicking big booty!”

  The king’s eyebrows knitted together. “Big … booty?”

  Pinky nodded. “The biggest booty.”

  Gilbert strode toward the small group. “Your Highness.” He bowed. “I am delighted to report that Carlos is a very quick study! He is doing excellently!”

  The king smiled. “Wonderful! Well then, I guess it’s time for me to keep my promise. We shall have a jousting tournament next week in the great Stabby Stadium!”

  The king put his hand on Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos’s shoulder immediately started to itch.

  “And you, son,” the king said proudly, “will be the star of the show.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The big day soon arrived. And it was a very big day.

  A joyous atmosphere swept from one end of Faraway Kingdom to the other. Long lines of jousting fans stretched from Stabby Stadium’s entrance, down Twisting Lane, and to the center of Village Square.

  It was like a giant party. Everywhere people told stories, laughed, sang, and shared picnic lunches. Roving packs of children played tag and squealed with delight.

  Inside the stadium, Carlos stood on the jousting field, trembling with excitement. He stared up at the tiers of seats that towered above him on all sides.

  Ten thousand seats.

  Then he gasped as every one of those seats filled up.

  “Wow,” Carlos said aloud to no one. “This is going to be amazing.”

  Trumpets blared. An announcer bellowed, “ALL RISE FOR KING CARMINE AND QUEEN CORA!”

  Everyone stood. Every pair of eyes fell upon the only empty chairs in Stabby Stadium. Perched high above the highest bleachers was a private box that contained two golden thrones.

  More trumpets sounded as the king and queen appeared through a private archway.

  The crowd went crazy. They cheered and stomped and whistled and whooped.

  From his position on the jousting field far below, Carlos smiled. Whenever he saw his parents together, he always thought the same thing: Mom and Dad are so … different.

  King Carmine was tall and bony and serious. His face was marked with frowny wrinkles. Queen Cora, on the other hand, was short and round and merry. As she waved to the crowd, she giggled like a giddy schoolgirl.

  King Carmine held up his hands to put an end to the cheering, but Cora poked him in the ribs. The king lowered his hands and allowed the cheering to go on for a little longer.

  But the king didn’t like being the center of attention. He held up his hands again.

  When the crowd finally settled down, he boomed, “May the joust begin!”

  End of speech.

  But the crowd didn’t need to hear any more. They cheered and stomped and whistled and whooped.

  Then, to everyone’s surprise, Cora put up her hands. The crowd again fell silent.

  “And don’t forget to root for our boy!” she announced proudly. She pointed to the field below. “There he is! He is such a good boy! Hello, sweetie! We love you!”

  The crowd laughed. It wasn’t the same kind of laughter that followed a particularly funny poop joke. It was teasing laughter. A bwah ha ha instead of a ha ha ha.

  Carlos’s face turned red.

  The king rolled his eyes and sat. He motioned for the queen to sit, too.

  And then the games began.

  “Fifty kingdoms sent their best jousters,” Gilbert told Carlos. “You won’t go on until the end of the tournament, so you can sit back and relax for a while.”

  That was a relief. Carlos didn’t want to joust so soon after being embarrassed by his mom. He found a shady spot on the far edge of the playing field and sat.

  Two men riding horses trotted onto the field. They were covered in armor from head to toe. One wore green silks over his breastplate; the other wore white. They slowly circled the field, waving to the cheering crowd.

  “Clad in white,” the announcer announced, “is Sir Milk Stache of Dairy Queensland!”

  The crowd cheered.

  “Clad in green is Lord Brock Lee Vapors of the Democratic Republic of Dictatortot!”

  More cheers.

  Each man took his place at opposite ends of the long dirt track that stretched across the field. A squire handed each jouster a sharpened lance. Milk Stache pointed his lance at Brock Lee Vapors. Brock Lee Vapors pointed his lance at Milk Stache.

  Suddenly, Carlos realized something.

  You don’t stab hay bales in a jousting match!

  Carlos had always known this, but he’d never thought about it until this moment.

  “Oh, no,” Carlos said aloud to no one in particular.

  A man waved a yellow flag to mark the start. Both horses leapt into action, barreling toward each other at top speed. Their hoofbeats made the ground tremble.

  Lances were carefully aimed.

  “Oh, no,” Carlos muttered. He squinted his eyes shut. “Oh, no no no!”

  But yes.

  Next came an ugly noise that Carlos could feel more than hear. It was part CRASH, part SNAP, part WHUMP, and part SQUISH. The unsettling sound rang in Carlos’s skull, tap-danced down his spine, and turned his stomach inside out.

  That ugly noise was soon overpowered by an even uglier one: the frothing, thunderous, bloodthirsty ROAR of ten thousand jousting fans.

  Carlos opened his eyes to see which jouster was still standing.

  Neither of them. Both Milk Stache and Brock Lee Vapors were groaning on the ground.

  Oh, no, Carlos thought.

  Milk Stache and Brock Lee Vapors were dragged off the field. A new pair of jousters took their places.

  “Clad in orange is Sir Lee Ness of Crabby Creek,” the announcer announced. “Clad in black is Earl Lee Ryzer of Good Mornington.”

  Carlos’s hands began to tremble. He needed to think. He needed to distract himself from what was happening. He needed to block it out.

  He reached into his pocket.

  Carlos flinched at another CRASH-SNAP-WHUMP-SQUISH sound.

  He flinched even more at the terrible ROAR of approval that followed.

  Carlos didn’t look up to see the damage. He focused all his attention on the playing cards.

  It was time to practice The Sneaky Jester.

  He shuffled. Then he lifted the top card from the deck. It was the joker. Again, he shuffled. Again, he lifted the top card from the deck. Again, it was the joker.

  “Clad in mauve is Lord O. Thedance…”

 
Again, Carlos shuffled.

  “Clad in mood indigo is Duke L. Ington…”

  Again, Carlos lifted the top card from the deck.

  CRASH-SNAP-WHUMP-SQUISH! ROAR!

  And, again, The Sneaky Jester showed himself.

  “Clad in polyester…”

  “Clad in ketchup stains…”

  Not once did Carlos look up from his cards. He was in the zone.

  What finally broke his concentration was a gentle hand upon his shoulder. Carlos looked up to find Gilbert. The prince’s normally flawless forehead was creased with lines of worry.

  “Carlos,” Gilbert said. “We have a problem.”

  Carlos blinked, as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep. “A problem?”

  Gilbert’s forehead creases grew deeper. “A very big problem.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Gilbert led Carlos off the jousting field. They passed through an archway under the stands and down a long, stone hallway. Carlos could still hear the terrible action on the field, but it was only a muffled echo, as if everyone were jousting underwater.

  “What is it?” Carlos asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Gilbert kept walking. “It’s about your jousting opponent.”

  Carlos felt his stomach tighten. “What about him?”

  They strode past a stable, where the jousting horses rested between matches. Carlos caught a glimpse of Smudge sleeping on his back. With each snore, a wisp of flame leapt from his nostrils. His horse neighbors were whinnying in alarm.

  “To determine jousting opponents, all the competitors’ names were put into a hat,” Gilbert explained.

  Gilbert and Carlos reached the end of the hallway. Two doors stood before them. Gilbert pushed open the door on the left, and they entered.

  It was a dressing room. Everywhere around them, jousters were being strapped into suits of armor.

  Gilbert continued. “Out of this hat, a judge pulled two names at a time. Those two people joust each other. That’s how your opponent was chosen. That’s how everyone’s opponent was chosen.”

  “Who is my opponent?” Carlos asked.

  “Him.” Gilbert pointed across the room. Towering head and shoulders above the other jousters was a brick wall of a man. His arms and legs were as thick as tree trunks. His head looked as if it were carved from stone. His muscles were so muscular that each muscle had its own set of muscles.

  Suddenly Carlos got a little dizzy.

  “His name is Sir Lance A. Lott,” Gilbert said.

  “He’s really … big,” Carlos observed.

  Gilbert nodded. “He’s too big for a horse, so he rides a rhinoceros.”

  Carlos felt his feet get numb.

  “He also jousts with a custom-made lance. It has a diamond tip.”

  “Why?” Carlos asked.

  “Because diamond is the hardest substance on earth. It can pierce through anything,” Gilbert explained. “Like armor, for example.”

  “Like … armor…?”

  Gilbert nodded. “And Sir Lance A. Lott has never lost a jousting match.”

  “What happens to his opponents? When they lose?” Carlos asked.

  “You don’t hear much from them afterward,” Gilbert replied. “I think because they find it very difficult to speak.” After a pause, he added, “Ever again.”

  Sir Lance A. Lott met Carlos’s eye. The burly jouster smiled, showing off a set of moldy green teeth. “YOU THERE!” Lance A. Lott boomed. “YOU THE BOY I’M STABBING TODAY?”

  “Um, I suppose…” Carlos replied.

  “YOU SEEM NICE. I LIKE TO STAB NICE PEOPLE. IT MAKES EVERYTHING NICER.”

  “It does?” Carlos asked.

  “YES. IT’S NICE.”

  Gilbert led Carlos back into the hallway.

  “That’s the very big problem,” Gilbert said.

  Carlos took a long, deep breath to steady his nerves.

  Take it easy, Carlos thought. Gilbert knows all about this jousting stuff. He’ll know what to do.

  “Okay, Gilbert,” Carlos said. “You know all about this jousting stuff. What do I do?”

  “Do?” Gilbert looked a little dazed.

  This was not the answer Carlos was looking for. “Yes! Do! What do I do to beat that monster?! What do I do?!”

  “I don’t know,” Gilbert said.

  Carlos’s brain practically blew up. “You don’t know?! What do you mean you don’t know?!” Carlos grabbed Gilbert by the shoulders and shook him. “You have to know! You know everything! You’re Mr. Perfect Prince! You’re famous! You’re brave! You’re brilliant! You look like you were poured into that crummy suit of armor! You’re the one on all the magazine covers! And you don’t know?!”

  “No.” Gilbert’s voice was almost a whisper. “I don’t.” Gilbert peered down at his armored shoes. “I’m not perfect, Carlos. Everyone expects me to be perfect, and I try to be perfect, but I’m not. I’m not even close.”

  Gilbert and Carlos were quiet for a long time after that.

  “You are an excellent jouster, Carlos,” Gilbert said finally. “Really excellent. I’ve never seen anyone get so good so quickly. But…”

  “But that guy is going to stab me,” Carlos said.

  “Yes,” Gilbert replied.

  Carlos’s eyes fell upon the second door at the end of the hall, the one on the right. It read EXIT.

  “Well, you might not know what to do,” Carlos said, “but I just came up with a pretty good idea.”

  And before Gilbert could say another word, Carlos pushed the door open and was gone.

  CHAPTER 8

  Carlos stood alone in the sunshine about twenty yards to the left of Stabby Stadium’s main gate.

  All was still. The village was empty. Everyone was inside, cheering the violence.

  Okay. You’re outside, Carlos thought. Now run.

  He didn’t move.

  Come on! his brain shouted. What are you waiting for? RUN!

  But his feet didn’t listen.

  He couldn’t run. Something deep inside Carlos wouldn’t let him run.

  He’d worked too hard to run. Gilbert had worked too hard. Smudge had worked too hard, too—and Smudge didn’t work very hard at most things.

  It was wrong to run. Carlos knew that.

  But going back inside to face Sir Lance A. Lott in the jousting arena felt pretty wrong, too.

  Carlos didn’t know what to do, so he chose to do nothing. He stared at the empty village and savored the silence.

  “Well! Look who’s here!”

  The voice snapped Carlos out of his trance. “Pinky!” Carlos tried to smile, but he couldn’t manage it. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I couldn’t stand the noise,” she said.

  “Me, neither,” Carlos said.

  “So I came outside to put the finishing touches on my drawing,” Pinky said. “My drawing of you.”

  Carlos tried to smile again. He still couldn’t manage it.

  Pinky folded her arms. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I found the inner you?”

  “Hm? Oh, right,” Carlos said. “Did you find the inner me?”

  “Yes, I did!” Pinky exclaimed. She held up her sketchpad. “Wanna see?”

  “Okay,” Carlos said.

  Pinky flipped to the page. “TA-DAA!”

  It was a sketch of Carlos manipulating a deck of cards.

  “I saw you playing cards in the stadium,” she said. “And there it was! The inner you!” Pinky pointed to her drawing. “Look at your eyes. See the sparkle? That’s what I was searching for.”

  Carlos stared at the drawing some more. “I was smiling?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “A little Mona Lisa smile. You always have that smile when you jester. I never saw it when you jousted, though. Even when you got good at jousting, you never sparkled.”

  Carlos knew this was true. Jousting excited him not because he liked to joust, exactly. Jousting excited him because he liked the idea of jousting for an audienc
e of ten thousand people.

  As a jester, however, Carlos didn’t need big crowds. Sure, he was happy to jester for a packed house at the Village Arena. But he was also happy to jester for a dozen kids at a birthday party.

  Even when Carlos practiced The Sneaky Jester for an audience of nobody, he was happy. He got a sparkle in his eye.

  Carlos smiled. “The Sneaky Jester.”

  “The sneaky what?” Pinky asked.

  “The Sneaky Jester,” Carlos repeated. “That’s the name of the card trick I’m doing in your drawing. It’s when I convince people the joker is going to be in one place, but it ends up…” Carlos trailed off, lost in thought. “It ends up … somewhere else.”

  “You have that sparkle in your eye,” Pinky said, smiling.

  “I know,” Carlos replied. “I have an idea.”

  “A jester idea?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “A very sneaky jester idea.”

  Without another word, Carlos threw open the door to Stabby Stadium and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 9

  Carlos was hardly through the door before Gilbert was back by his side. “Carlos, what are you doing here?” he said in a harsh whisper. “I just finished telling everyone you had the stomach flu.”

  “Tell them I’m better,” Carlos said. “I’m jousting.”

  Gilbert leaned in closely. “What? Have you forgotten that Sir Lance A. Lott is eight times your size? That he’s the better jouster? With a better lance? Who rides a rhinoceros? And he reeeally enjoys hurting people?”

  “But I have a plan,” Carlos said.

  “You have a plan?” Gilbert asked. “What plan?”

  “A secret plan,” Carlos said.

  “A secret plan?” Gilbert frowned. “What if your secret plan doesn’t work?”

  Carlos didn’t answer that question. He strode down the long hall toward the horse stables.

  “Smudge,” Carlos called. “Time to get up. We’re jousting.”

  Smudge rolled over. “I don’t wanna go to school.”

  “SMUDGE!” Carlos shouted. “WE GOTTA GET READY!”

  Carlos’s sharp words snapped Smudge out of his slumber. A fireball of surprise leapt from the dragon’s mouth and barbequed the butt of a horse in a neighboring stall. The horse let out a whinny of rage.