Lame of Thrones

by The Harvard Lampoon

  As he rolled around, Beerion kicked his leg into another pile of rubble. He heard a loud pang and felt a sharp pain shoot up his leg. He got up and inspected the rubble more closely, shifting aside a few more rocks. He saw a large head made of gold. Beerion moved aside the rest of the rocks and unearthed the body attached to the head, as well as another body.

  “Brother… sister…” said Beerion as he furiously patted down the corpses for liquor. The bodies of his siblings lay broken, crushed by the rubble of the Red Queef. The time had finally come: Beerion was the last of the Bangsisters. His brother and sister were his family’s last hope for a healthy bloodline to live on. Now they were dead, and their family name would go with them, vanishing into obscurity, their legacy in the new world reduced to nothing more than ink in a history book on some future maester’s shelf. And, worst of all, Beerion couldn’t find any alcohol on them.

  Beerion gave the bodies one last look. Cervix looked peaceful, more kind and queenly than she had ever appeared in life, and Lemme was positioned so that he was sixty-nine-ing her while jerking off and shoving a fist into his prostate.

  Beerion fell to the ground, defeated. He began to come to terms with the fact that here, in this crumbling city, he would in all likelihood die. A dirty, sober, six-inch, family-less loser. However, after a moment a smile crept back onto his face when he thought about the name Rickety again.

  Jon

  Blood, gristle, vomit, scratches, and dents covered Jon’s warranty-voided armor as he stood looking across the devastation all around him. Before today, the square he stood in had been a bustling center of trade. Now it was a ravaged wasteland.

  “Well, I suppose that’s just capitalism, eh?” he quipped to himself, unaware of how poignant, yet misplaced, his words were. Bodies lay strewn across the cobblestones; men, women, children, tweens, seniors, and the middle-aged all lay as equals in death. Across the plaza, an army was slowly gathering at the base of the enormous marble steps leading up to the ravaged Red Queef. They gathered, gazing up at a lone figure standing at the top of the steps, stark against the blue sky. As he slowly made his way, weaving through the remains of the capital, he could hear snippets of the speech this mysterious figure was giving to the gathered soldiers.

  “We will move the prison for the criminally insane across the street from the school for the intellectually gifted and frail.”

  Who was this mystery woman? Jon had to find out, but that could wait for now. Jon was still a little shaky from the battle, which had been hard fought. The Golden Company, bought with gold, had proved their merit and bravery in the streets and households, on the walls of the city, and in the savage fighting in the sewers. They had paid in blood. And they were obliterated by a single dragon. But theirs wasn’t the only sacrifice. Jon himself had taken a heavy blow to the head while headbutting a Bangsister squire to death. A dull roar filled his ears; he would probably never regain the ability to wiggle his ears. And at least temporarily, his eyesight was damaged.

  “We will advertise a day at the zoo where paraplegic children get in free… oops, we left the tiger exhibit open, and all the kids are covered in BBQ sauce.”

  The crowd seemed to breathe around him, each individual expanding and contracting like so many pulmonary arteries. But where was Dennys? He could barely make out the orating figure, but he was certain it could not possibly be her. This mystery figure was speaking like a crazy person. And Dennys was not crazy. Surely her burning of the entire city, including the innocent civilians, the children, and the elderly, was a mistake. A joke, maybe. Perhaps just a misunderstanding at worst. Jon’s cloudy eyes scanned the city, hoping to see his queen somewhere and console her in the wake of all this unintentional chaos.

  “We will destroy the moon, and our Clothkhaki riders will make their advance on the sun and any remaining planets.”

  This woman, though her speech inspiring, was mad! Bent on nothing but bloodlust! He needed to find Dennys quickly and put a stop to the mysterious figure’s insanity. Grunting with effort, Jon overturned a broken piece of stone facade.

  “Dennnys? Dennnny, where are you?” Jon called, expecting to see Dennys cowering under the rubble.

  “I will now rank the animal crackers by shape. First is the giraffe shape of course… Now the next one is tough because I like the way that I can bite the ears off the lion and it looks like…”

  Jon’s terror grew by the second. She could be anywhere in the crowd—somebody must have seen her. He ran up the great marble steps, spun to face the crowd, and cupped his hands to amplify his voice.

  “Dennnnys? Deeeeennys?” he yelled. The voice of the speaking figure paused, and with it the crowd grew silent. Jon took the chance to address the gathered soldiers. “My name is Jon Dough of House Snark—well, it was, until recently I found out that my father was actually my mother and that my mother was Eggie Grandslam, giving me a rightful claim to the Pointy Chair. I’m looking for Dennys, Collector of Trains, Fan of David Blaine, Queen of the Sandals, and so on—please, someone, anyone, can anyone tell me where to find her?”

  The Funsullied stared sheepishly at the ground. Jon’s eyesight was slowly returning to him. He looked to Dog Shit, who was awkwardly twirling his foot on the ground and darting his eyes behind Jon toward the mystery speaker. Jon twirled around, making his way up the final few steps. This woman, she must know where to find Dennys. His eyesight improved a little more. As Jon climbed the last few steps, just at her feet, the mysterious figure raised her arms in a triumphant V and let out a deep bellow.

  “And then, I’m going to tabletop a bunch of old people, have a friend get on their knees behind them, and I’ll push them over. Take that, Granny. Boom, good night, Grandpa.”

  “Oh, holy hells,” Jon sighed. “It is you?” Jon saw her, his Dennys, standing at the top of the steps, just feet above him. The massed army clambered behind him in response to Dennys’s emphatic call for bloodshed, but Jon only had words for his queen. “What are they cheering about?” he asked, his eyebrows arching quizzically. “We’ve got a real situation here. I am bound by honor and duty to tell you to stop all this bloodshed. Please make sure you don’t rile the army up with a rousing call for violence.” The army’s swords raised in a cacophonous rattle. Even the weapons of all the child soldiers could be heard being dragged on cobblestone.

  Dennys stood poised brilliantly above her army of lovable pickpocketing cockney street urchins, dirty horse-worshipping warriors, pedophiles, and buttless mercenaries, paying Jon’s words no mind. Jon felt his heart sinking deeper and deeper into his chest, his lips forming a puckered O. This was not the Dennys he had fallen in love with: the ditzy, free-spirited, cute Dennys. This was a new powerful, strong-willed, independent Dennys. He was appalled by these adjectives. She used to be obsessed with silly, girly things, like freeing all the slaves in the world and treating people well. Now she wanted power and obedience from her followers? What had changed her demeanor?

  “I feel like sleeping. I bumped my head earlier. Wow, I’m dizzy,” she said as her pupils began to veer in opposite directions. It was clear to anyone with medical training that Dennys had sustained a serious concussion. However, she had been so needed in battle that doctors had gone against their better judgment and declared her fit to play. If exposed to more head injuries, she would surely develop CGE, a Crazy Grandslam Episode. Dennys motioned for Jon to follow her as she turned from her army. Jon jogged to catch up.

  As Jon and Dennys receded into the Red Queef, the closing band started to set up their gear.

  “Check, mic check.”

  Funky bass riffs filled the streets of King’s Landing Strip. Then the drums kicked in, in a big way. The army started grooving and really feeling themselves. Jon motioned to Dennys that he wanted to hang back and see the band’s set.

  “Jon, there is no cause to party right now. I have much to do. Much more to conquer. Many more flames to unleash on the unsuspecting. Let’s talk, in the Pointy Chair room.” Dennys moti
oned toward the ruined Bangsister hold.

  Jon’s eyesight finally returned to full strength. “Okay. So it definitely is you.” His hearing, however, had not. “And sure, sure, a costume party. The Pointy Chair broom, whatever that is… But we really need to talk at some point about what happened today.” Lines of concentration appeared around Jon’s mouth.

  Ash fell like snow as they walked hand in hand toward the Pointy Chair. Jon’s tongue was outstretched, trying to catch individual flakes.

  “I thought you said we were going to a costume party.” Much to Jon’s chagrin, he realized he was the only person there who had gone to any sort of trouble to be on theme. “Listen, Dennys, I have to tell you something. Ever since you killed all those poor townspeople with your fire-breathing monster, even though you completely—and let me reiterate with more disgust—completely did not have to, I’ve just… I don’t think you’re such a good person anymore.” Jon flinched, expecting to be set aflame immediately.

  “Jon,” Dennys replied, smiling, “I am still the same Dennys you fell in love with. The same one you fought beside, believed in when times got tough, and the same one you made love to.”

  “Yeah, I guess we did totally bang,” said Jon, wiping away a tear. “Also, I’m over here, Dennys. You’ve been talking to that plant.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. I’m just still so dizzy. That bump really did a number on my head. Anyway, that’s right. You fucked your aunt, buddy. And more importantly than that, I love you. We can still do this together. We can conquer the world!”

  “You’re still not quite looking at me. That’s the same plant, but I suppose—Dennys, no! No! What am I saying?! You killed all those innocent people! Seven hells, you destroyed the city you wish to rule! You’ve removed a tyrant, yet in the course became one yourself!”

  “Ahem, excuse me.” Both Jon and Dennys spun to face the voice. It belonged to a newcomer who had silently slipped into the hall.

  “I think I’m lost… is the costume party down the hall to the left or right?” Standing where the great oak doors had once held silent guard over the hall was Piffley, Dennys’s old flower picker.

  “Not now, Piffley,” Jon said solemnly, though silently happy that he was not alone in costume. “Keep the costume on. We’ll meet up later.” Jon’s stern demeanor quickly returned to him after a brief moment of imagining all the fun Piffley and he would soon have.

  Dennys noticed Jon’s anger had returned. She took a deep breath, then addressed Jon directly.

  “Jon, I know that you brought me here to question my actions today. I did what needed to be done. I realized what I had to do to break the wheel. I had an epiphany, the logic of which I can explain to you with metaphors like a phoenix rising from the ashes, or the purative effects of fire, or a clean slate. Stop me when one of these connects, Jon. Stop the motor of the world, or creative destruction, and then I’ll craft one ring to rule them all. No wait, that’s something else…”

  Jon looked out into space, realizing Dennys was far beyond saving. She’d gone mad with power, just as Cervix before her, Robot Boaratheon before her, and the Rad King before him. He kneeled down and cudgeled his brain, trying desperately to formulate some solution that would remove Dennys from power without bringing her any harm. While he contemplated, Dennys continued to ramble on about her manifest destiny, the Clothkhakis’ living space, and the like.

  Jon realized the only right thing to do was what he should have done hours ago. He’d have to kill Dennys. If she were left alive, tens of thousands more innocent people would die under her reign just as they had today in the Strip. Jon couldn’t bear to imagine all those innocent buildings that would still be standing if he’d thought to do this even just a couple hours earlier.

  Suddenly Jon hatched a plan. He’d have to catch Dennys off guard to kill her. Jon always kept a blade in the crotch of his pants for personal reasons. He shook his head in disbelief at what he was about to attempt. But it was the best idea he had.

  “Yes, uh-huh, that’s a very interesting thing you are saying—hey, Dennys,” Jon said nervously. “How about, uh, would you wanna give me one last blowjob for old times’ sake?”

  “Last blowjob?” said Dennys, taken aback.

  “Uhhh, no! I mean, um, just one more blowjob… of many future blowjobs to come… for old times’ sake?”

  “Hmmm.” Dennys squinted her eyes. Jon did his best not to appear suspicious and violently jerked his head toward his crotch, subtly insinuating his desire once again. “Hmmm,” Dennys said again.

  Dennys got on her knees as Jon stood getting ready to swing the knife and cut her throat. But then, Dennys began to rub his penis before undoing his pants.

  Suddenly Jon experienced a very rational revelation. Damn, thought Jon. This feels really, really good. How can I kill someone who makes me feel this good? Because I can’t, that’s how. I simply cannot kill my beloved Dennys.

  “You know,” said Dennys, “when we do this, I must say, I really appreciate that it’s so small.”

  What? thought Jon. What the fuck? It is my sworn duty to kill her for the good of the country.

  Dennys undid Jon’s pants and saw the knife.

  “Hey!” she said. “It’s that knife you always keep in your pants for personal reasons.”

  “But this time—it’s nothing personal,” quipped Jon slyly, swinging his pelvis left and right until the blade had sliced Dennys’s throat open. He hoped somebody had written that one down.

  “Listen, kid,” Jon said as Dennys bled out on the floor. He lit a cigarette and gestured to her with it. “I liked you, I really did. But sometimes it doesn’t matter how much you like someone.” Jon put on a pair of period-accurate sunglasses. “You just gotta kill them, and that’s the honest to Gods truth, see. And that’s just business right there. That’s showbiz, Dennys. That’s politics.”

  Dennys grabbed the knife from the floor and cut her throat all the way so she wouldn’t have to keep listening to Jon’s monologue.

  “You hear me, Dennys?” asked Jon. “That’s Vegas for you. Texas hold ’em rules. Gotta know when to fold ’em. Dennys? Dennys?” The queen was dead.

  Just then, an exasperated squire ran into the room. “Am I too late?” he panted. “I’m here with the Dying Desire Foundation. Sorry, you would not believe how many dying people are out in the streets right now. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say a dragon burned them all half to a crisp!”

  As the words came out of the squire’s mouth, Dragun landed directly behind him in a thunderous thud. The squire froze. Dragun approached his mother’s body on the ground. Dragun nuzzled her body, trying to get a reaction. Nothing. He tried again, shoving her body, begging his mom to wake up and give him just a single breath to prove she was alive. Nothing. He tried again, really not accepting that his mom was dead. His efforts became more and more pathetic. Finally he nudged her so hard that her arm snapped off and she failed to react at all. Maybe one more nudge ought to do the trick? But it was no use. His mother was dead. Dragun roared at the top of his lungs in Jon’s face, while halfheartedly continuing to nudge Dennys with his talon. He could tell Jon had done this to her.

  This is the end, thought Jon as Dragun moved his massive jaws closer to his head. This beast is going to eat me alive.

  “Ehem,” spoke Dragun in an eloquent voice. “How much blood was spilled on this day? How many more parents will bury their children? How many more lives will perish before you stupid men realize that power does nothing but corrupt? I’ve sat here silently at my mother’s helm for years, and all I hear about is this infernal chair. And how small you, Jon Dough, are in bed.”

  I’m going to have to kill this dragon, thought Jon, darting his eyes toward the snickering squire.

  “But no more! Not one more life lost in service of this chair. Today is the day this chair, and all it stands for, comes to an end!” Dragun lifted his head backward and paused for a moment. All was silent in the Red Queef, save for a bellowing echo comi
ng from deep inside Dragun’s belly. He lashed his head forward and unleashed the hottest fire he’d ever summoned.

  “Aghhh! Ow! Ow OW HOT HOT OWW! Stop!” cried the squire, who was standing directly between Dragun and the chair. “You just said no more lives would be lost because of this chair! You are contradicting—oh my god PLEASE stop—yourself! IT BURNS! Why won’t this fire just kill me already? It’s melting a literal iron chair behind me!” And just like that, the squire died fifteen minutes later.

  The Pointy Chair was melted into a puddle of iron on the floor. It was no more.

  After several beats, Dragun picked up Dennys’s body and exited through the ceiling, passing out into the ink-blue night. The currents of air in the room began to calm.

  Jon lost sight of Dragun in the darkness, until his outlined figure passed in front of the brilliantly full moon. It was clear that Dragun had gripped the fallen queen pretty tightly between his claws; Dennys’s body looked like when a water balloon is squeezed in the middle.

  “Gross,” Jon whispered, wiping a final tear from his face. In the falling silence, he turned and noticed a young fancy lad entering the hall.

  “I would be remiss if I didn’t honor our fallen leader with a song,” announced the lad.

  “In the grand haaaallll,

  we saw our queeen fall,