“CHARGE!” shouted the Clothkhaki commander, “charge” being Clothkhaki for “attack.” Off went the entire population of the Clothkhaki on their horses, galloping into darkness as the first line of attack for the humans. Who better to fight the undead than the most alive, animalistic, passionate, instinctive, impulsive, stupid army on the planet? The Clothkhaki stampeded right toward the enemy with weapons in their hands and no battle plan or strategy in their minds whatsoever.
“So these huge strong Clothkhaki guys are going to take care of this for us, right?” asked one of the youngest Snark soldiers to the rest of the army. “Like, they’re going to kill everyone and we won’t actually have to fight magically enchanted undead corpses?”
An elder Snark soldier chuckled and looked down at the quivering young lad. “If you’d seen what I saw the Clothkhaki do decades ago at the battle of Tacoboat, you wouldn’t be worried one bit.”
But as the Clothkhaki got further and further away from the castle, their yips turned into yeoows and then finally into silence as the zombos quickly exterminated their whole army.
“You are going to die tonight, son,” said the elder soldier, driving a sword through his own neck. The young soldier left to go change his pants again.
Fuck, thought Malarya. Those zombos just killed the entire Clothkhaki population. Isn’t that genocide, technically? I mean, I know the zombos are trying to wipe out all humans, which is definitely very evil, but it still feels messed up, even for them, to commit a genocide.
Ser Boats prepared to send the next squad of men, this time Snark fighters, out to certain death. But suddenly, in the nick of time, he no longer had to, because certain death was coming straight toward them. The Nighty Night King pointed toward Wintersmells, and the zombos followed, charging at the humans by the thousands. With the zombos gone, the Nighty Night King checked to make sure the coast was clear and then took out his binoculars to get a quick little glimpse of Bland over at the weirdwood tree.
Malarya couldn’t help but smile as the zombos came running toward her. “It’s killing time, still.”
Pantsa jumped into action immediately, leaving the battleground to go hide with the women and children.
“Oh, well this is disgusting,” Pantsa remarked upon arriving in the cellar with the mothers protecting their kids. “I’m going to uh, go… back to the battle,” she lied. Pantsa left and went to a separate, much fancier cellar she’d constructed just for this sort of occasion.
“Phew,” whispered Lord Varysectomy to Beerion, both of whom were wearing dresses and wigs to blend in with the women. “Looks like she didn’t notice us.”
Back on the battlefield, things were heating up. “Did somebody order a lead sandwich?” quipped Malarya, shooting a zombo in the head. She quickly turned and shot another zombo right between the eyes. “Tell the missus you’re gonna be home a little late tonight!” Then another. “Have you met my gunne? She has something she wants to say to you!” Another zombo dead. “Time flies when you’re having gunne!” Then two zombos dead with one shot. “Two for one without a coupon? Now that’s a deal!” Then Malarya shot a very tall zombo in the genitals, and it spun around and made a fart sound when it collapsed. I swore I had a line for this exact situation, thought Malarya, staring at the corpse, trying really hard to think of the quip. “Swirly dirly fart, you tall… fuck? Is that something? What’s the line? It definitely had ‘dirly’ in it…”
Meanwhile Ham Tardy was trying his best to survive the devastating swarms of the undead. “I killed a White Wiener once! I killed a White Wiener once!” he shouted as he spun in circles, trying to avoid zombos. Finding himself surrounded and unable to run, Ham continued to uselessly spin in circles until he slipped and fell. “Don’t step any closer! I read about your kind in a book!” he said from the ground, momentarily out of reach of the zombos.
“Apologies, Ser Lemme!” shouted Brian of Fart, who’d showed up just in time to save Ham. Hoisting Lemme as a battering ram, she smashed his gold head through the zombos and killed each one of them. Ham was saved.
“It’s actually way harder to kill a White Wiener than a zombo,” he said, getting up and brushing a mixture of both his own feces and random feces off of his clothes. “They’re much higher-ranking officers in the undead army. I killed one once.” As the words came out of his mouth, Ham discovered a brilliant new strategy for his fighting. He promptly ran to hide behind a thin tree and let everyone else kill the zombos for the rest of the battle.
All around Malarya, the living were being completely overwhelmed by the undead. She watched as human soldiers were chomped up, pulled apart, and even slashed to pieces by the screeching, relentless zombos.
“Help!” they yelled.
“Save me!” they pleaded.
But Malarya was too busy doing 360-degree backflips, shooting zombos midair, and then shouting, “Talk about flipping the script!” to worry about saving her lousy fellow soldiers. Could she have saved countless lives if she wasn’t spending extra time doing cool tricks with her gunne and saying awesome quips after each kill? Probably. But killing zombos wasn’t as fun as killing humans, and as she’d been reminded several times, there were no humans in this battle that she was allowed to kill, so she had to spice things up somehow.
Suddenly a fist came swinging at Malarya. She dodged just in time and saw who the fist belonged to.
“The Clown?” she asked.
“Little girl!” said the Clown, realizing he’d almost hurt the only person on the planet he didn’t actively despise. “I didn’t realize that was you. I’ve sort of been killing anything that moves out here. Zombos, humans, horses, you know how it goes.”
“No fair!” shouted Malarya. “Can I join?”
The Clown kicked her to the ground. “You rascal! Not this time.” And just like that, the Clown hopped on a horse and rode off, punching the horse as hard as he could.
“Aw, man,” pouted Malarya, somberly returning to fighting. She was so bummed out that she could only muster the enthusiasm to do a 180-degree flip before shooting the first zombo she saw.
On a hilltop overlooking the battle, Jon and Dennys prepared the Wintersmells air force.
“Giddy-up!” said Jon as he mounted Jragon, prompting an angry screech from the beast.
“Jon!” whispered Dennys. “In the high Ovarian tongue, ‘giddy-up’ means something very, very offensive. Do not say it around the dragons.” She leaned in and whispered, “Especially Jragon.” Dennys mounted Dragun and took to the skies as Jon followed close behind.
“Dracarys!” shouted Jon, which caused his dragon to do nothing.
“Huh?” said Dennys. “What’s that you just said? Dracarys? What in the seven hells is that even supposed to mean, Jon? That’s the dumbest piece of gibberish I’ve ever heard.”
“Sorry, what’s the fire command?”
“Gasolina.”
“Oh, right. Gaaaaa…”
“Solina.”
“Right. Prasolina.”
It was close enough. The dragons dove down over the fight, shooting fire onto the battlefield, burning somewhere between a dozen and twelve zombos every second.
“Man,” said Jon, “maybe we should’ve started riding the dragons from the beginning?”
“What do you mean?” asked Dennys, diving down to burn more zombos. “I feel like we chose the right time to come in and turn the tides.”
“Yeah, but look at how much damage the dragons are doing against the zombos. We’re just vaporizing them. Don’t you feel like if we’d gone out from the start, the entirety of the Clothkhaki wouldn’t have died? And all the thousands of my men that have died already wouldn’t have died?”
“Look, in order for this to be the longest, most cinematic battle sequence of all time, we needed to eat up some time with ground-forces footage. We couldn’t just start with the dragons or else—nevermind. You’re overthinking this.”
Before Jon could shrug and agree with her, Jon and Dennys were st
artled by the sound of an ear-shattering, ungodly shriek not coming from either of their dragons. It was the Nighty Night King, riding a reanimated Draggin, shrieking at the top of his lungs as his dragon remained silent.
“Draggin?” said Dennys, beginning to tear up. “C’mere boy. Is that you?”
“Gasolina!” shouted Jon, shooting a beam of fire at the zombo-fied Draggin.
“Jon, no!” protested Dennys. “Don’t hurt my dragon! He’s my child!”
“Dennys, it’s not actually—”
The Nighty Night King took advantage of the time they were wasting bickering to command Draggin to blast a beam of exotic blue fire at Dennys. Whereas red fire is hot, blue fire is blue.
Not one to let someone hurt his queen, Jon attacked the Nighty Night King with fire once again. Dennys saw Jon attacking Draggin and was outraged that he wasn’t listening to her. Not one to let someone hurt her dragons, she turned to Jon and started shooting fire at him. The Nighty Night King noticed Dennys blasting Jon with fire, Jon blasting him with fire, and no one blasting Dennys with fire. Not one to let an enemy be the only person not getting blasted with fire, the Nighty Night King unleashed a steady stream of fire blast right on Dennys.
After a full minute of futile triangular fire blasting, the Nighty Night King hopped off Draggin and made a mad dash on foot for Bland and the weirdwood tree. Jon followed in hot pursuit, making his way to the ground and sprinting after him.
“Jon!” shouted Dennys. “You’re much more helpful and effective in this fight on a dragon. Come back!”
“No, I got this!” he replied mid-sprint. “I really, really want to kill this guy myself!”
Hearing him, the Nighty Night King turned around and locked eyes with Jon. Surrounded by piles of fallen soldiers, the Nighty Night King raised his arms in the all-too-familiar “raise the roof” motion, but he didn’t stop there. He took his raised arms to the left, then to the right, his hips following with all their might. He started to pull his arms behind him and simultaneously threw his pelvis forward. He stuck his arms out as if he were driving a car and dropped his ass low, wiggling it left and right behind him. He was bumping and grinding, getting lower than low. Then the Nighty Night King dropped his hands to the floor and shook that ass up and down so hard that it could’ve caused an earthquake.
What followed was the most powerful resurrection of dead men into zombos that the Nighty Night King had ever summoned. It wasn’t just the thousands of recently dead soldiers who immediately stood up with blue eyes and began attacking Jon. Every dead body in every cemetery in the whole North heeded the Nighty Night King’s call, crawling out of its grave and sprinting toward Jon Dough, no matter how many days the journey would take.
“Dennys?” panicked Jon. “Dennys, you were right! This was a mistake!” he shouted, though Dennys, Jragon, and Dragun were miles in the air.
Meanwhile, the battle was raging on, and hope was slowly vanishing for the humans. The zombos had overwhelmed them so thoroughly that they’d been forced to retreat to safety inside the walls of Wintersmells, which were then immediately breached by the zombos. Malarya was as giddy as the schoolgirl she would’ve been if not for the atrocious parenting from an extremely violent man whose beheading she witnessed. She’d just invented the phrase “cowabunga” after she’d thrown a zombo dozens of feet into the air and then shot it in the genitals. When she opened her mouth afterward, the celebratory phrase instinctively came out, and she had a feeling that it was really going to take off.
As Dennys tried to wipe out the hordes of zombos on Dragun, she once again ran into zombo-fied Draggin as he flew in front of her, growling and ready to strike.
“Here, boy!” she tried again. “Come to mama!”
Draggin sent blue fire straight at her.
“Okay, easy, boy!” she shouted, narrowly dodging the fire. Dennys was impervious to fire, but blue fire? It was anyone’s guess if she was impervious to that. “Draggin, it’s mom. I know you’re still in there. He’s put some spell on you, but I am your mother, and I know I can get through to you. The real you,” she began to tear up. “Draggin, I love you. I always have, and I always will… no matter what.”
Draggin rammed Dennys off of Dragun and then flew over to the castle to burn more stuff.
Dennys woke up on the ground soon after, surrounded by zombos. She had no weapon. It seemed like the end of the line for her. Dennys began to utter what she realized might be her last words.
“I don’t love you, Draggin!” she shouted. “I’m not actually your mom! ‘Mother of dragons’ is just an expression I say! It’s not like you have my DNA! I just raised you! And you were the shittiest dragon!”
“Oh, hey, Dennys, funny seeing you here,” panted Yora Mormon, rolling in frantically on his wheelchair, which had two swords attached to it. He cut through the zombos as he clumsily wheeled around. “Oh, I guess I’m sort of saving you right now, haha, so random,” he said, taking out a dagger and stabbing a zombo right before it bit Dennys. As he killed it, the zombo lightly fell onto Yora, which ripped open his soft skin and caused his innards to spill out. “Cowabunga!” shouted Yora. “That’s a cool new phrase young kids are using. You say it when something hurts, right?” Yora collapsed onto the ground.
“Yora! You’re hurt!” Dennys said.
“Ah yes, I suppose I’m going to die now. A small price to pay to save my queen. At least I get to say good-bye with a… tender kiss.”
“Oh… um, thank you so much for saving me,” said Dennys uncomfortably. “I’ve got to go fight now. I will… miss you terribly.”
“Ah yes!” wheezed Yora. “How tragic to say good-bye forever, but it’s almost worth it, knowing I’ll get one parting kiss from my lovely queen.”
“Uh huh,” she said, purposely ignoring him as she took the swords off his wheelchair for herself. “You were a great guy, Yora. Great life. Going to be missed for sure.”
“And it’s with a farewell in the form of a pressing of your lips against mine that I will feel safe going into the darkness that is death.”
“Uhhhhh, okay, fine, here’s your farewell kiss,” she said, leaning in. As Yora shut his eyes and made a kissing face, Dennys silently tiptoed away, blew Yora an air kiss, and ran back to the battle. Yora died thirty minutes later with his lips puckered, still thinking she was about to kiss him.
Over at the weirdwood tree, the Nighty Night King arrived to eliminate humanity’s last Pink-Eyed Raven. Bland began his plan to distract him.
“Whoopsie-daisy,” said Bland, dropping his bikini top and feigning that it was an accident. The Nighty Night King’s lips began salivating uncontrollably as he unsheathed his knife. “Did I do that? I’m so silly,” said Bland. The Nighty Night King was holding up his knife, but suddenly he was too entranced to strike. Peeon hid behind the weirdwood tree, preparing to attack.
“You got this,” Peeon said, psyching himself up. “Just go and kill him.” He tried desperately to hold back the tears that welled at the mere notion of violence. “You can apologize to him afterward,” he said, slapping himself in the face.
Bland lured the Nighty Night King even closer by rubbing massive amounts of baby oil on his toned biceps.
“Could anyone spot me while I do some pull-ups on this tree branch?” asked Bland. “I really need to get my reps in and would be so, so grateful.” The Nighty Night King couldn’t help it. He quickly dropped all notions of murder and volunteered, figuring it was the least he could do. At that moment Peeon popped out with his sword and charged toward the Nighty Night King.
“I’m so sorry about this!” shouted Peeon as he raised his sword and quickly got stabbed by the Nighty Night King, who’d just snapped out of his state of distraction. “Oh goodness, Mr. Nighty Night King, I’ve gotten my blood all over your knife and your shoes, and I’ve just tried to ruin your plan to kill Bland. Can you ever forgive me?”
The Nighty Night King cut Peeon’s throat and knocked him over.
“Bland,�
�� Peeon wheezed, “does this mean we’re all good? Your family and me? We’re cool? I know I kidnapped you and your brother and killed some of your friends and took over Wintersmells for a minute there, but now that I’m dying to protect you, we’re all square, yeah? Bygones are bygones? Right, Bland? We’re totally good, you and me? Past is the past? Water under the bridge, Bland? All good? I’m redeemed? Now that I’m going to…” Peeon trailed off and died an honorable death, his character arc coming full circle in an impressively satisfying and neat manner.
The Nighty Night King continued toward Bland, this time not succumbing to his diversions.
“Man, I sure wish I had someone to rub this tanning oil on my lower back,” tried Bland. The Nighty Night King continued steadfastly toward him, hellbent on murder. “Could someone help me cut my shorts a little shorter?” asked Bland nervously. Nothing. He was desperate to distract the Nighty Night King. “Uhhhh,” he floundered. “I hope no one minds if I just get naked right now,” he said. Nope. It was useless. But Bland doubled down. “Yeah, so I guess I’ll just get completely naked right about now—”
“Ahhhhhhhh!” shouted Malarya, jumping literally fifty feet into the air and landing on the Nighty Night King from behind, her Ovarian steel dagger in hand. The Nighty Night King turned around and caught her, grabbing her hand before she could stab him.
Nice try, she thought. I’ve got you right where I want you. Malarya dropped the dagger, letting the Nighty Night King think he’d won, and she caught the blade with her other hand. Hasta la vista, baby, thought Malarya, inventing another awesome catchphrase as she stabbed the dagger forward. But the Nighty Night King reacted just in time and grabbed her other hand, stopping the knife. I bet you think you’re clever, eh? she thought, dropping the dagger once again, catching it with the original hand down low.
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