at the hand of Jon the Small,
his penis, like that of a doll.
Tiny little pecker,
With his knife he did wreck her.
Then the beast spake eloquently.
A squire did he bake relatively.
The chair has been liquified.
I work almost entirely on tips.”
The singing lad now held his hat out to collect tips. Jon tried to avoid eye contact and solemnly walked out of the hall.
Beerion
After weeks of epic journeys from the farthest reaches of the Seven Kingdoms, across the treacherous forests of the East, and through the infamous Westopolis Valleys of Endless Adventure and Infinite Storylines, all the most powerful lords and ladies finally arrived at King’s Landing Strip. Yes, journeys so incredibly arduous and intriguing, their stories could surely fill another two, perhaps three, novels. Yet, for the sake of the leather on my publisher’s whip, I will summarize all of their journeys with a single anecdote: Whoremund looked at a rock. Rock, thought Whoremund.
Westopolis’s best were in attendance at King’s Landing Strip, sucked in from their various homes by the vacuum of power created by Queen Dennys’s death. They sat in silence on stools arranged in a half circle outside the rubble of the Red Queef. They sat arranged according to the following logic:
All of the Snark children sat together, arranged in either ascending or descending height. The only people sitting closer to the rightmost edge of the half circle than Ser Boats McSeaman had to have more vowels in their name than him. Whoremund sat next to two people he had never met before, unless he sat next to Bland, in which case he’d know the person on the other side of him as well. Ham sat on the leftmost end of the semicircle, with no more than two women sitting an odd number of people away from him. No seat was left empty, unless someone had designated it empty so they could prop their legs on it, but they were only allowed to do so if they had showed up to the meeting fifteen minutes early. Using this information you can deduce the order. I suggest you use no more than five minutes on this problem as the rest of the book will be worth more points.
There was a solemn feeling of uncertainty in the air. Everyone was on eggshells. There were eggs all over the fucking ground. “The ground that I just swept,” said Mortimer, the late queen’s personal janitor, as he continued sweeping up mountains of rubble. Mortimer was a true gift to the royal family; a rare reminder of integrity in the cold world of Westopolis, he remained loyal to the Bangsisters even after his queen’s death. A veritable gem among the filth and deceit commonplace in King’s Landing Strip. Perhaps he would not be confined to remaining a janitor his whole life… Perhaps there was more in store for him. Much more.
Dog Shit arrived and stabbed Mortimer in the heart. “Hello,” he said to the lords and ladies sitting in the semicircle. He held onto a chain, which held Beerion’s tied hands at the end.
“You know, Dog Shit,” began Pantsa Snark, “you mustn’t kill someone every time you make an introduction. You can just say hello.”
“No, I may not. For I am a Funsullied. And that means that I have no butthole.”
“Right, but, well… that isn’t logical at all.”
“My lady,” Dog Shit drifted off, looking up to the sun with a fierce squint and then returning his glance to lock eyes with Pantsa. He began, “You see, long ago, a man removed my butthole, and from that day I was a Funsullied. Day and night I would train with the most vicious, powerful men our master could find to pit me against. And I did it all without a butthole. I would eat, sleep, and breathe Funsullied; yet deep down I wanted a different life. But, without a butthole, even if I managed to escape my master, nobody would take me seriously. My only hope was to meet a sorcerer and pay them a substantial sum of money. Enough money for them to perform ancient blood magic upon me, reinstating my butt. I have long searched for a sorcerer. Everyone I see, I sometimes think to ask, ‘Are you a butt sorcerer?’ That, that, my lady, is why I must kill.”
“Wouldn’t that story make more sense if instead of killing Mortimer, you asked if he was—I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this—a butt sorcerer?” asked Pantsa incredulously.
Dog Shit looked at her without a single glint of understanding in his eyes. The lords and ladies sat in uncomfortable silence.
“Yes, well, now that Dog Shit has given his… thoughtful piece,” Beerion began.
“You are not here to speak!” Dog Shit yelled as he pulled the chain taught, forcing Beerion to his knees.
“Why have you brought the Imp?” asked Whoremund while digging his single tooth into a not fully dead wild boar.
“He is our prisoner,” said Dog Shit, face full of regret as he looked at the wild boar’s butthole with envy.
“Speaking of prisoners… where is my brother?” asked Malarya.
“We have not decided what to do with him yet,” replied Dog Shit sternly.
“If you lay a finger on my brother, I will cut your throat,” Malarya said, not batting an eye.
“Easy, Malarya,” calmed Beerion. “It is understandable that the Funsullied want your brother to receive some sort of punishment for killing their queen.”
“Beerion, I will cut your throat using Dog Shit’s throat!” Malarya threatened.
“Silence!” cried Dog Shit. “This city is ours. We will decide what to do with our prisoners.”
“It’s not for you to decide,” Beerion coughed out, getting back up on his feet.
“I am the commander of the Funsullied. You are my prisoner. We will decide Jon Dough’s punishment. If there is a problem with that, you can kiss my butt—” Dog Shit cut himself off, choking back tears as he reminded himself of his buttless predicament.
“You buttless bastards don’t get to decide shit!” said Whoremund between bites of his second wild boar. “You’ve never taken a shit! Hahaha,” he slurped. “And in any case, who is to decide then? Me? No, no. Not me. Certainly not, that wouldn’t make any sense. I am not king!”
“We have no king! Nor queen… anymore,” said Pantsa.
“You people are the most powerful lords and ladies in Westopolis,” said Beerion. “Pick one.”
Beerion’s words resounded in the air for a moment. It seemed that among the burning remains of King’s Landing Strip, a seedling of rebirth could emerge from the middle of these sitting lords and ladies.
“I mean, I’ll do it,” said Whoremund, standing up nonchalantly, wiping hog grease off of his face and burping. “If no one else wants to, I’ll be king.”
“My king, I will serve you until death.” Ser Boats McSeaman removed his sword from his sheath and knelt, plunging it into the dirt. He bowed his head. Ser Boats, being extremely nonconfrontational, could not handle the idea of an argument breaking out between the lords and ladies, all of whom he considered his best friends. He was willing to let Whoremund’s lackluster display slide and serve him until death.
“Certainly not Whoremund,” said Beerion, rolling his eyes.
“I suppose you’re wanting it to be you then, eh?” retorted Whoremund.
“Me? The Imp, who killed his mother, his father, and by association his sister and brother? The man who has had his hands in all the wars, the violence, and the tragedy our Seven Kingdoms have experienced? The man who half the world hates for supporting Dennys and the other half hates for betraying her?”
“Yes, my king!” Ser Boats groveled, now pivoting to bow toward Beerion instead.
“I cannot think of a worse choice,” said Beerion, lowering his head in shame.
Suddenly Ham Tardy stood up. “My lords. My ladies. What if… well, what I mean to say is this: what if instead of choosing a king or queen, we develop an intricate system of communal labor forces that, while self-sufficient, will produce goods at a surplus that can be used to fund and feed an army, as well as various social welfare programs such as universal health care and standardized free education? What if we worked together to write a book relating the economic concepts of scaled pro
duction and public ownership of capital and then used said book to guide our political structure?”
“Ham, are you quite finished being a dumb fat guy so that we might get on with this?” said Pantsa.
“Shut up, Ham,” said Ser Boats. All the lords and ladies laughed at Ham until he sat back down. Then they began laughing even harder at the sound the chair made when he sat. It was kind of like a “gerffff,” or more like a “squeebie squeebie.” It’s a hard sound to describe, but it was hilarious.
“Who then?!” screamed Whoremund, biting his own hand because he was eating boar so fast. “Who will be king?!”
“I have had nothing but time to think these past few weeks while all of you have been journeying here,” began Beerion.
“Oh, and what a journey it was! At one point I looked at a rock!” said Whoremund.
“Yes, I am sure you did. But I know one of us who has looked at quite a bit more. Bland the Broken. You have seen our past. All of ours. And all of it. You can see the present, anywhere in the world, with just the shutting of your eyes. You know what the future will hold before it happens. You know what all of us look like naked.”
“Hold on, Beerion,” said Pantsa, shifting uncomfortably. “You don’t mean to suggest that my brother should rule the Seven Kingdoms? Nothing against you, Bland, but are you up to the task? Do not let this Imp put you into a position where you feel you cannot refuse.”
“Your brother is what is best for this world, Pantsa. I know he does not want this responsibility. And it is for that very reason that he must accept.”
“I will serve you, my king,” said Ser Boats, unsurprisingly.
The lords and ladies were quiet for a moment. Then Whoremund stood. He looked around to see if anyone had some food they were not finished with. None. “Ah, what the hell, my king!”
“Well, I suppose a boy with the collective memory of everyone is as close to a collective leadership as we will get, huh,” said Ham pathetically with a little chuckle.
“Shut. Up. Ham,” said Dog Shit. “But, fine. The boy can be king.”
The lords and ladies continued to stand and give their support for Bland Snark. He sat emotionless, looking to Pantsa, the last one remaining seated. She toiled with her fingers for a moment before looking up to the group.
“The North will remain independently ruled. As we have for thousands of years. And as we will for thousands more.”
Bland nodded, emitting a small smile.
“Well then, Bland. You have heard the lords and ladies speak. What do you say, will you be our king?” questioned Beerion.
There was a silent energy filling the air as everyone looked to Bland. Even Dog Shit leaned in, patiently awaiting the boy’s answer.
“Why do you think I’ve been so annoying this whole time?” Bland smirked smugly. “I accept.”
“And so it is settled! Bland Snark, the Pink-Eyed Raven, will lead Westopolis into a glorious golden age the likes of which has never been seen before. He will rule justly, free from the clouds of envy and greed that have afflicted so many kings before him. Tell us, Your Grace, what will be your first acts as king?”
“Firstly, Beerion, you are to be my Best Man.”
“No,” Beerion chuckled nervously, “I’m afraid my days of politics are surely behind me, Your Grace.”
“You have had your hand in all the decisions of the most powerful people in Westopolis for the greater half of your life. You have spent your days making many mistakes. Now you will spend the rest of your days fixing them.” Bland’s words were spoken with such calm authority that Beerion found himself unable to formulate a clever protest. Instead he blurted out, “Righty-o, Mr. Kingy-o,” and then immediately shook his head and wondered where in the seven hells that came from.
“Now then, as to the matter of my brother Jon.” Bland looked around the circle of chairs and was greeted by a full gambit of facial expressions. It seemed that if Jon lived, half the lords and ladies would be furious, and if he died, the other half would be furiouser. “Jon will be sent north of the Trench to live with the Mildlings.”
Whoremund stood up and burped up a few chickens. “Aye! So the lad will finally become one of us after all! Three cheers for the fair King Bland. Hip Hip Hoora—”
“Hold on! No one who murders a queen I vowed to protect keeps his life. Not even a main character.” Dog Shit stood indignantly, scowling at Bland and Whoremund. He readied his spear.
A bead of sweat dripped down Bland’s forehead. “Now, hold on, hold on. You didn’t let me finish. Um, Jon Dough will be sent north of the Trench, where he will be murdered by his own direwolf, Toast. Happy?”
“Bland, you monster!” Malarya sprung up. “You cannot do this to our brother!”
“I did not finish!” Bland stammered. “He will be killed metaphorically by Toast, who will in a literal sense only pester him with constant pleas for attention. There. It is decided.”
“That is no punishment. He has to pet his dog? What the hell kind of punishment is that?” Dog Shit grew angry.
“If you people would let me finish, please! As I was saying, it is decided that, uh, it is not decided… Because, um, Beerion?” Bland quickly wanked in his mind to mentally escape. Now he was in a strip club in Wintersmells that he particularly fancied.
“Dough will be a Mildling until the day that he dies. It is justice as it is as good as death as far as we should be concerned. But if anything, it is not merciful enough, given his actions to save the realm from yet another tyrant,” Beerion said.
“Not merciful enough?! The only mercy I will show him will be when I kill him before cutting off his butthole!” screamed Dog Shit.
Bickering between the lords and ladies continued until nightfall, but eventually Bland returned from his mental paradise and squared everything away. Jon was to be exiled to north of the Trench with the Mildlings. Pantsa would rule the North independently. Ser Boats McSeaman would receive reparations in the form of a new reading tutor with free lessons twice a week. That final stipulation was the result of several hours of harsh negotiations.
Everyone began packing their supplies and settling in for the night before the long journey back the next morning.
“Geez,” said one of the lords, scratching his head as he was heading out, “is anyone else having second thoughts about making Bland the king? Like, does anyone else think this is an unsatisfying way to wrap up this chapter of our lives? Or does anyone feel just kind of disappointed that this is how we’re ending things?”
Everyone shrugged and kept preparing to head home.
Pantsa approached Malarya and put a loving hand on her shoulder.
“Let’s go get some rest, sister. It will be a long day of travel tomorrow back to Wintersmells.”
“No, I will not be returning to Wintersmells. It smells of winter there,” said Malarya as she studied a mysterious map.
“What?”
Malarya wrested her eyes from the map to meet her sister’s concerned glance. “Listen, I have no place being a Lady of Wintersmells anymore. That’s not me. I must follow my heart and answer the call I hear so constantly. I am going west to explore.”
“West? But what is west of Westopolis?”
“What is west of Westopolis indeed, sister…” Malarya grinned and looked to the setting sun. “That is what I shall find out.” And hopefully kill some people, she thought to herself.
Dawn broke early. Malarya and her crew had already been up for hours preparing her new ship, fondly named in memory of her father, the HMS Decapitated Sack of Bones, for its journey west.
“Eyes up, lads! Hoist the poop deck and foil the masts!” Malarya commanded. Her knowledge of boats was nonexistent, but her confidence inspired the crew of hardened sailors into swift action.
When all was ready, King Bland christened the ship from the shore with a keg, powerfully thrown at the weakest part of the boat. It was such a powerful throw that the keg went straight through the boat, flying out the other sid
e, leaving a giant hole.
“Now the boat has an indoor pool!” shouted Malarya optimistically. “Thanks, Bland!”
Malarya stood at the helm and shouted down to her crew.
“Anchors aweigh! Today we sail for adventure!” The crew cheered. “Today we sail for glory!” The crew cheered louder and began waving their shirts over their heads. “Today we may die in the name of pointless exploration!” They put their shirts back on nervously.
The ship began to move out of the harbor, into the thick fog that constantly loomed over the shallows to the west. Slowly, it dipped into the fog and disappeared. “What in the seven hells will you have for me out here, you bastard of a sea?” Malarya said to herself.
Half a second later, the ship shuddered and halted, and Malarya’s first mate called out, “We have run aground, my lady.”
“We have—what?” Malarya was in disbelief. Suddenly all the fog cleared from their view ahead. In front of them lay a massive, beautiful continent. Waterfalls fell from high cliffs into pools of crystal blue water. Every type of animal imaginable, and some that even the most creative author could not be bothered to describe, grazed lush plains for as far as the eye could see. Inland a few hundred yards there were multitudes of fruit-bearing trees just coming into bloom. Plentiful reserves of gold and silver could be seen dotting the cliffside.
“Are you fucking kidding me? How could nobody have ever known this existed?” Malarya scrambled to her maps. All of them had things like “Eh, there’s nothing here, buddy boy” or “Who cares—it’s probably just fog forever” written where the continent was.
“Send word to my brother immediately.”
“That’s okay. I can hear you from here!” Bland said from shore.
In the following weeks, the realm enjoyed an uncharacteristic period of peace and prosperity. Bland managed to lower taxes while simultaneously creating thousands of new jobs for peasants—jobs such as poop shoveler, shovel maker, poop producer, and tax attorney.
On the surface, the realm had never seen such positive progress. Yet, in the privacy of the newly reconstructed and newly handicap-accessible Red Queef, King Bland issued secretive, sinister commands.
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