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- George R. R. Washington
A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Prologue to the Prologue
Prologue
Chapter 1: Allbran
Chapter 2: Gateway
Chapter 3: Headcase
Chapter 4: Lolyta
Chapter 5: Juan
Chapter 6: Gateway
Chapter 7: Malia
Chapter 8: Allbran
Chapter 9: Tritone
Chapter 10: Lolyta
Chapter 11: Juan
Chapter 12: Headcase
Chapter 13: Gateway
Chapter 14: Tritone
Chapter 15: Sasha
Chapter 16: Headcase
Chapter 17: Gateway
Chapter 18: Headcase
Chapter 19: Juan
Chapter 20: Malia
Chapter 21: Tritone
Chapter 22: Allbran
Chapter 23: Lolyta
Chapter 24: Headcase
Chapter 25: Juan
Chapter 26: Headcase
Chapter 27: Gateway
Chapter 28: Sasha
Chapter 29: Tritone
Chapter 30: Headcase
Chapter 31: Malia
Chapter 32: Headcase
Chapter 33: Lolyta
Chapter 34: Gateway
Chapter 35: Headcase
Chapter 36: Allbran
Chapter 37: Juan
Chapter 38: Tritone
Chapter 39: Headcase
Chapter 40: Gateway
Chapter 41: Tritone
Chapter 42: Lolyta
Chapter 43: Headcase
Chapter 44: Sasha
Chapter 45: Headcase
Chapter 46: Juan
Chapter 47: Headcase
Chapter 48: Freon
Chapter 49: Headcase
Chapter 50: Malia
Chapter 51: Lolyta
Chapter 52: Sasha
Chapter 53: Juan
Chapter 54: Allbran
Chapter 55: Gateway
Chapter 56: Tritone
Chapter 57: Sasha
Chapter 58: Tritone
Chapter 59: Headcase
Chapter 60: Gateway
Chapter 61: Malia
Chapter 62: Sasha
Chapter 63: Lolyta
Chapter 64: Juan
Chapter 65: Lolyta
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
PROLOGUE TO THE PROLOGUE
“Watch it with the wand, Specs,” breathed the tall man in black, rubbing the area on his backside where the boy in the round glasses had accidentally poked him.
The boy, who could not have been more than ten, yet spoke with the confidence of an eleven-year-old, grumbled, “You watch it,” then, under his breath, added, “Y’probably wouldn’t be so tough without that helmet, would you, mate?”
The man in black growled, “Speak up, young one. Can’t hear you,” then rapped his be-gloved knuckles on the side of his own head and noted, “The Death Star R&D department didn’t exactly do a bang-up job on the ear amplifiers.”
“The Death Star R&D department doesn’t exactly do a bang-up job on anything … especially the Death Star,” the boy pointed out. “I mean, how hard would it have been to make a retractable cover for the thermal exhaust port? Even Weasley could’ve figured that one out.”
“Is that right?” the man in black snorted. “Well, you tell this Weasley to come up with a budget that’ll cover uniforms and weapons for 251 stormtroopers and a retractable cover, then we’ll talk.”
“Both of you, please lower your voices,” monotoned the pointy-eared man in the skintight blue and black suit. “It is highly illogical to engage in this sort of heated discussion before we attempt this ambush … which is illogical enough to begin with.” Gesturing at the leafless trees, the muddy ground, and the snakes snaking around their ankles as if they were snakes, he claimed, “This is not a logical launching area. There are only five of us and this Lion, who represents Jesus Chryst—and you know he represents Jesus because Lion is capitalized—and we do not know how many of them. We are not ready for battle.”
A bearded man in a brown robe shook his head and sighed, “He is correct. We are not ready for battle. You have not studied. You are not learned. You have not absorbed the teachings of the F—”
“Don’t say it,” interrupted the man in black. “Don’t say the F word!”
“—orce,” finished the bearded man.
The four other men, the golden android, and the Lion all groaned.
“The Force is foolishness,” the bespectacled boy complained. “You know it, and I know it, and everybody at Hogfarts knows it.”
“Hogfarts?” growled the Lion.
“That’s right, mate, Hogfarts. Spelling Hogfarts with a ‘w’ could get us in trouble.”
“You mean Wogfarts?”
“No, I mean Hogw—”
“Don’t say it,” interrupted the man in black. “Don’t say the H word!”
“—arts,” finished the bearded man.
The four other men, the golden android, and the Lion all groaned.
A noseless man with a shiny bald head snarled, “I concur with the boy. The F word is foolishness. I believe this is the first time the young magician and I agree on something.” He glared at the boy. “You are learning. And that is unfortunate for me.” Addressing the rest, he loudly added, “That is unfortunate for us all!”
After the echo from the bald man’s cry dissipated, the man in black said, “Way to keep our location a secret, Lord Bigmouth.”
“This surprises you?” the droid asked. “His Lordship isn’t exactly known for his subtlety, is he?”
The pointy-eared man said, “Not to worry, robot. The acoustics here behind the Wall are such that we could sing the Vulcan Anthem at the top of our lungs without giving away our position to the Fraternity of the Swatch.”
“Know-it-all,” the man in black muttered.
The pointy-eared man grumbled, “I swear to Hephaestus, I will mind-meld you with an ant.”
The man in black glared through his helmet at the pointy-eared man and hissed, “Mind-meld me? Mind-meld me? Like that’ll ever happen. Set your phasers to give me a break.”
The boy pointed out, “I should point out that it’s impossible to mind-meld somebody who doesn’t have a brain.”
The bearded man raised his hands to the sky and groaned, “Others, Others, Others, please control yourselves. I feel a great disturbance among you. If we are to take what is rightfully ours, we must band together, or else…”
“Hold on a sec,” the man in black interjected. “Can we discuss this ‘Others’ business?”
“What is there to discuss?” the bearded man inquired.
The man in black sat down on the muddy ground—killing six snakes in the process—and stretched out his legs, then gestured at the Wall and asked, “Shouldn’t they be the Others? Why are we the Others?”
Shrugging, the bearded man explained, “Some chucklehead from House Barfonme named us the Others several Summers ago. It stuck.”
“Well, how about we unstick it?” Again gesturing to the Wall, he suggested, “How about we call them the Others. I bet they’d hate that.” Raising his voice, he yelled, “Hey, all you Swatch dummies! We’re no longer the Others. I decree that from now on, you are the Others! We’re the … the … the Awesomes!”
A belch-like sound drifted over the Wall. The droid asked the pointy-eared one, “Did you hear that?”
“Of course he did,” snarled the man in black. “What with those stupid triangles on the side of hi
s head, the guy could probably hear a baby dragon taking a leak against the wall of House Barker.”
“Dragons are extinct,” sneered the pointy-eared man.
“You’re extinct.”
“Why don’t you go make an obscene phone call, you mouthbreathing psycho?”
“Who’re you calling psycho, nerdling?”
“Who’re you calling nerdling…”
Again, the bearded man lifted his arms to the sky and, pointing at the sun, kvetched. “Gentlemen, please, we’re losing the light. Can we get down to business? Maybe a weapons check?”
The pointy-eared man pinched together his thumb and index finger. “Check.”
The glasses-wearing boy twirled his wand between his fingers as if it were a miniature baton. “Check.”
The droid made two brassy fists. “Check.”
The man in black shook his head at the droid and snarled, “Fantastic. That’ll have ’em quaking in their boots.”
The bald man pointed his finger at the glasses-wearer, who transformed into a pony, then back into a human. “Check.”
The Lion stuck his paw in front of his mouth, roared, smelled his breath, squinched up his face, and growled, “Check.”
The man in black removed a small cylinder from his pocket, pushed a button, nodded at the beam that leapt from his weapon, and said, “Check, double check, and triple check, bitches.”
The bearded one said, “Alright, Others…”
“I told you, we’re not the Others! They’re the Others! They’re the Others!”
“… may the you-know-what be with you!”
PROLOGUE
The Wall was melting.
It was not melting quickly by any means—Easterrabbit’s continental meteorological experts estimated it would take at least six Summers for there to be a significant loss of mass—but if, like Broheim Jarhead and Broheim Airhead, you were forced to guard the Wall day in and day out, night in and night out, you noticed.
The two sworn members of the Fraternity of the Swatch were sitting on the Earth’s muddy surface, legs crossed, eyes glazed. Jarhead passed Airhead a large green bottle, and belched, “This sure isn’t what my mother had planned for me.”
Airhead took a deep drink, then leered, “Probably not. But I have something planned for your mother.”
Jarhead sarcasticked, “Boy oh boy, I sure haven’t heard that one before from you.”
“Boy oh boy, your mother sure has,” Airhead retorted.
“Shut up and take a drink,” Jarhead commanded.
“My pleasure.”
After a lengthy guzzle, Jarhead pulled the bottle from Airhead’s grip and said, “Quit bogarting the grog, Bro.”
“I have seniority, and I can bogart as much and as often as I’d like, just as Lord Borgar of Castle Blanca once did.” Airhead burped. “By the time you turned four, I already owned three swords, and had eight kills under my belt.”
“Yes,” Jarhead noted, “you’ve mentioned that. Several hundred times.”
“And I pulled myself up from nothing. Nothing,” Airhead whined.
“That has also been mentioned,” Jarhead pointed out. “But I suspect that won’t stop you from telling me…”
“I never knew who my father was, Bro,” Airhead interrupted. “I was a … a … a jerkoff. ”
“Of course you were.”
“That’s what folks around most of Easterrabbit call boys who don’t know who their fathers are: jerkoffs.”
“I know.”
“I understand they call them bastards up on the other side of the Wall, but here, they call them jerkoffs.”
“They sure do.”
“You understand that? For the sake of this discussion—and any discussions following—the definition of jerkoff is the definition of bastard.”
“Got it.”
“Forget everything you know about the word jerkoff. Right now, and for the next two hundred or so pages, a jerkoff is a child who was abandoned by his father.”
“Check.”
“And I was the biggest jerkoff in all the land.”
“And you still are.”
Airhead finished off the bottle, then stood up and threw it straight ahead, as hard as he could; the bottle stuck to the Wall as if it were covered in Velcro, and the Wall was covered with more Velcro. “That’s why I joined the Fraternity, Bro. Because I’m a jerkoff. A stupid jerkoff, with a stupid life that’s now even more stupid, because I spend every minute of every day watching this stupid Wall, wearing this stupid armor in this stupid heat. I’m sweating my onions off in here.”
“You think you had it rough just because you don’t know who your father was?” Jarhead questioned. “I grew up on the border of Dork. All our food came from Dork. All our clothes came from Dork. All the smells came from Dork. That’s a stupid life.”
Airhead raised himself to his knees, stood up, then fell down again. “I’m sorry, Bro,” he apologized. “Jerkoffs tend to focus on the fact that they’re jerkoffs, and that is not how a Frat brother should act.” He reached his hand under his armor, scratched his shoulder, then added, “It’s just that it’s hot, and I’m bored.”
Jarhead nodded his understanding, then said, “I understand. You want another drink?”
“I do,” he agreed, “but what I’d like more is to use my training. I want to fight.” He picked up his sword and whooshed it to and fro. “We trained to fight. We took an oath to fight.” He faced the Wall and yelled, “We’re ready when you are, Others!”
A voice came over the Wall: “You’re the Others!”
Airhead and Jarhead gawked at each other. “Did you hear that?” Jarhead asked.
Airhead nodded.
“What do you think we should do?” Jarhead queried.
“I think we should go and…”
Before he could finish the thought, a bald man with no nose called from the top of the Wall, “I think you should go and suffer! Ahoy, Others! It is time to begin our takeover of the entire continent of Easterrabbit!”
A man wearing full-body black armor and a black cape leapt over the Wall, landed directly in front of Airhead, and pointed out, “In case anybody asks, regardless of what baldy back there says, we’re not the Others. We’re the Awesomes.”
At once, three or four voices called from the other side of the Wall, “That’s not official yet!”
The man in black yelled, “I hate you all!” Then he picked up Airhead by his neck, held him three feet above the ground, and spiked him into the mud.
Jarhead drew his weapon and approached the man in black. When he was a sword’s thrust away, the man in black held up a finger and Jarhead came to a sudden halt, holding his throat with his free hand and gagging, unable to speak. The man in black breathed, “This is it? This is all they’ve got? This is the big, scary Fraternity we’ve been hearing about for the last, what, zillion Summers? We’ve been sitting here with mud up our bum cracks, and nothing’s been happening—not that we should be surprised by that, because if you know anything about Easterrabbit, you know there’s often pages and pages and pages and pages of nothingness—and this is it?”
A bespectacled boy riding a Lion—who anybody with any sense would recognize represented Jesus Chryst, if only because the word Lion is capitalized—materialized out of nowhere and corrected, “Seven Summers. We’ve been waiting seven Summers to make a move. Seven. Seven long Summers in the heat, and the sun, and the rain, and the heat, and the tornados, and the heat, and the…”
“Okay, Specs,” the man in black said, “we know, we get it, it’s hot, but put a sock in it. I’m wearing way more crap than you, and do you hear me bitching? No. So how about less whining, and more mauling.” The man in black turned to the Wall and roared, “You guys coming, or what?”
In the blink of a dragon’s eye, a hole appeared in the Wall, and through it climbed the members of the group formerly known as the Others. The hole closed as quickly as it opened, and then the battle began.
A
bearded man in a robe stomped on the fallen Airhead’s head, sending brain matter flying in all directions. Directly in the path of the brain shrapnel, the golden droid took several hits; he flicked a blop of gooey gray matter on his chest and uttered, “Dear me, what time does Ziebart close?”
Ignoring the effeminate-sounding robot, the noseless man ripped a tree from its roots and smashed it into Jarhead’s back, sending the Swatchman flying. “How’d that taste, you Easterrabbit bastards?” he asked.
Airhead sat up, picked up a fistful of brain, jammed it back into the hole in his head, and grunted, “I’m not a bastard, I’m a jerkoff!” Then he threw a handful of mud at the noseless man.
The noseless man easily dodged the salvo and called to the bespectacled boy, “Care to have a go at him, magician?”
The boy grinned wolfishly, snarled, “Bloody right I would,” then threw his wand at Airhead. The stick went into Airhead’s left eye and boomeranged out his right, then floated easily into the magician’s awaiting hand.
The Swatchman poked his fingers into his empty eye sockets, roared, “The Fraternity of the Swatch shall not be vanquished,” then pulled himself to his feet, took a single step forward, tripped on a snake, and collapsed onto the mud, looking deader than the deadest of dead snakes who had died.
During the commotion, the pointy-eared man bent over Jarhead and pinched the back of his neck. All four of Jarhead’s limbs detached themselves from his torso and flew into the Wall, where they stuck as if they were covered in Velcro, and the Wall was covered with more Velcro. The noseless man then twisted off Jarhead’s head and took a drink from his skull.
The bearded man declared, “We are done here. We have done what we needed to do. We have made our point. If we continue on this path, we will find ourselves heading toward the Dark Side.”
“You have a problem with the Dark Side, you old fart?” the man in black asked. “It’s fun on the Dark Side.” He ripped off Airhead’s arm and flung it over the Wall as if it were a twig that was blown from a tree during a Summer storm. “Now that is how we roll on the Dark Side, baby. It’s a pile of piss. You might want to…”
Before he could finish his thought, Airhead whispered, “We’ll be back, Bro. We’ll be back.” And then he bled out.
The pointy-eared man gave the dead Swatchman a nervous glance, then murmured, “He’s right, you know. All logic dictates that if he says he’ll be back, then he’ll be back, probably right before the end of the tale.”