Pantsa
Pantsa, Malarya, Ham, and Beerion sat on the ashy ground. They were the only survivors of the battle and the ensuing dragon attack. Around them was rubble and not much else. There was nothing left to fight over and no one left to fight over it. The four decided that for the sake of preserving a shred of order and decency, they would name Pantsa queen. She stood up, took a deep breath of smoky, ash-ridden air, and before she could deliver a speech died of pulmonary complications due to mesothelioma.
Screw It: Malarya, Ham, and Beerion
Alright then. You wanna do it? The whole queen thing?” Beerion asked Malarya.
“Nope.”
Ham suddenly perked up and spoke with the air of a whimsical whistle. “Well, alright then, who says anyone needs to rule us? Why, I’m sure we could get by on our own! We could go on all sorts of cheery, wacky adventures together! We could see the world!”
“Adventure!” chirped Malarya.
“And exotic liquor and women!” grinned Beerion.
“Just the three of us sticking up for each other, exploring this great fantasy world we call home! The way it’s always been!” Ham smiled from ear to ear. Strings began to swell, and the sky turned golden while the sun slowly dipped beneath the horizon.
“One for all!”
“And all for one!”
Suddenly the sky turned dark. The violins abruptly stopped, followed awkwardly by the cellos, who were not paying attention to the conductor. In the distance, a dark figure drew his sword. Before Malarya could make a move to defend the three, the sword came flying at their necks. It spun through each one like a sword cutting through butter, and then flesh, and then bone. Ham’s coat had some butter on it. They collapsed to the ground without any final words.
Epilogue
The figure approached the three fresh corpses he’d made. As he walked, he surveyed the fractured remnants of the city.
The horizon was no longer visible for all the smoke. Hundreds of thousands of bodies—the entire population of the Strip—lay strewn about and smoldering. Their corpses told of the sad final moments of a broken city: mothers reaching for children who reached for a salvation that wasn’t there.
He walked down the steps to the red-light district. Doorways sheltered darkened figures, much of their bodies reduced to ash, their palms stretched into the brothels and holding coins that had melted and fused onto their skin, the bodies halted in their attempts to find a last bit of happiness as their worlds burned around them. He stepped over the many horses that lay before the buildings, still hitched to their posts, their faces frozen in grotesque screams.
He stopped before a small structure and seemed to consider something for a moment before looking up at it, his hesitation betraying some familiarity with the building. He stepped into the structure’s one room and saw building blocks and painted dolls littering the floor. There were many small mounds on the floor, and in the corner he saw one mound that was larger than the rest. He approached this large mound, and as he did so he saw that it was a corpse. He shifted it a bit and realized that it was actually two corpses: an adult shielding a child. He looked at the child and saw that it was holding a small wooden figure of a knight on a horse. The details of the figure had been spared, protected from the dragon’s fires by the soft flesh of the child’s arm. It was a very fine figure, with exquisite attention given to the details in the armor of both rider and horse. It looked as though at any moment it might breathe and charge into some legendary battle. It would have been the greatest possession of any schoolchild. He picked the figure out of the child’s grasp, and as he did so it crumbled into dust. He stood up and walked past the mounds—corpses, he now knew—and out of the school building.
He continued his walk and finally arrived at the small square where he had launched his sword. Three figures lay crumpled on the ground, a mess of cloth and outstretched limbs, a small but growing pool of blood beneath them. He cleaned off his sword, resheathed it, and then knelt to consider the bodies for a moment. They were so young. Too young to have been playing this game.
At Ham’s feet sat the crown. The figure picked it up and manipulated it in his hands. So much death, for this little thing… he thought. He stared at the crown for a few minutes more and then placed it on his head, cleared his throat, and spoke:
“Well if that ain’t just a game of thrones!” laughed Trashbag—Eldest Son of Winston Garbagio, First to Collect Trash Inside Himself like a Bag, First to Consider Changing His Name to Something More Kingly Now That He Had Appearances to Uphold, First to Change His Name to “Tra$hbag,” First to Be Currently Shimmying Across the Corpses of Malarya and Ham and Beerion and Fist Pumping the Crown in the Air, First to Skip Across a Field Shouting “I’m da King, I’m da Queen!” and then Tripping and Falling Really Hard, First to Stay Down for a Scary Amount of Time, First to Slowly Get Up and Say “… and da Prince!” and Then Absolutely Eat Shit Again, First to Roll Over and Groan “and… and… da… Princess” Through the Sudden Bear Mauling He Was Receiving, First to Seem Almost Certainly Dead and Then Cough Up Too Much Blood Two Hours Later but It Gets All Up His Nose and He Starts Choking Again, First to Crawl Home to His Dog and Say “Talk About a Ruff Day,” First to Collapse in Bed Thinking to Himself “Finally, Time to Relax” and Smile, Last to Realize He Left the Crown in the Field Fifty Miles Back, and the One True King of the Seven Municipalities.
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Appendix
House Boaratheon
House Snark
House Bangsister
House Thighspell
House Playboy
House Grandslam
House Ofpain
House Martin
About the Harvard Lampoon
The Harvard Lampoon was founded in 1876 and is among the oldest continually published humor magazines in history. It has been an incubator for some of the brightest and most respected names in comedy—including Conan O’Brien, Colin Jost, Lawrence O’Donnell, B. J. Novak, Patricia Marx, Susan Borowitz, Alan Yang, Amy Ozols, Andy Borowitz, Ian Frazier, dozens of SNL writers, writers and producers of Atlanta, Veep, The Office, Parks and Recreation, 30 Rock, and almost every Simpsons writer ever. Earlier alumni include John Updike, George Plimpton, William Gaddis, George Santayana, William Randolph Hearst, and Robert Sherwood. The Lampoon’s 1969 Tolkien parody Bored of the Rings is the bona fide classic of the form, and its success spurred the founding of the National Lampoon. More recently, Twilight parody Nightlight and Hunger Games parody The Hunger Pains both became New York Times best sellers. Each parody is written by a new group of Harvard students who have joined the Lampoon.
Credits for Lame of Thrones:
Head writers: Juan Arenas, Mike Miller, and Jack Stovitz
Writers: Jakob Gilbert, Zach Goddard, Lia Kiam, Brian Mott, Michael Perusse, Scott Roberts, Posy Stoller, and James Wolfe
Cover art, map, and sigils: Isabel Gibney
In-book drawings: Nicole Araya
Additional material: Freddie Shanel and Grace Shi
Also by The Harvard Lampoon
Bored of the Rings
Nightlight
The Hunger Pains
The Wobbit
The Stoner’s Guide to Landmark Tennessee Supreme Court Cases pre-1860
Stay Inside the Lines, Behind Enemy Lines: A Gulf War Coloring Book
Okay Expectations
Ass Wednesday
Where the Wild Thangs At?
Call of Duty: Black Ops
The United States Constitution Strategy Guide (with Cheat Codes)
All of James Patterson’s Books: The Book
Hamlette
Untitled surfing dog project
Barron Trump: A Star Wars Story
Curious George Sacrifices Ten to Save Thousands
The Anarchist’s Eat, Pray, Love
Remember coins? Yeah, we invented those. Not a book.
To Revive a Mostly Deceased Mockingbird
Bram Stoker’s Count Chocula
Doctor Boobs: Boobs Doctor
Danimal Farm
Lame of Thrones Page 22
