A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot Read online

  Once she finally wriggled into the garment, her brother swished into the room and exclaimed, “My, my, my, Loly, you look most fierce.”

  “You think so?” she asked. “Am I showing too much skin? Or maybe not enough?”

  Vladymyr—known to those in the know as Vladymyr of the House Targetpractice, the Zillionth of His Name, King of the Sandals and the Ryebread, Lord of the Who-the-Heck-Knows-How-Many Kingdoms and Protector of the Elves—gave his little sister an intense once-over and said, “No question, Loly, you will be queening out on your wedding. And thank Gods for it.”

  “Why thank Gods?” she asked. “What’re you so concerned about? I’m the one getting married to that stinky manhorse.”

  “Because,” Vladymyr explained, “manhorses have short lifespans, and when he dies, I will take my rightful place on the throne.”

  The dress was making her itch. Scratching her back, she said, “Okay, explain to me again why you, Vladymyr of the House Targetpractice, the Zillionth of His Name, King of the Sandals and the Ryebread, Lord of the Who-the-Heck-Knows-How-Many-Kingdoms and Protector of the Elves, will succeed Ivan Drago, a full-blooded Dorki and a native of Dork, as the ruler of Dork?”

  “Because, Lolyta Tornadobutt, Princess of Duckseventually, everybody knows that the ruling families throughout Easterrabbit are all about inbreeding—it’s been documented on both the page and the small screen—so when Ivan Drago dies, everybody in Dork will think that you and I are dorking, and according to the Dork constitution, whoever is dorking the Queen in Dork sits on the Dork throne.”

  Loly shook her head dubiously and opined, “I don’t think that’s the exact wording in the constitution. Nor on the page. Nor on the small screen.”

  “That’s my interpretation,” Vladymyr hissed, “and as Vladymyr of the House Targetpractice, the Zillionth of His Name, King of the Sandals and the Ryebread, Lord of the Who-the-Heck-Knows-How-Many Kingdoms and Protector of the Elves, my interpretation is the only interpretation.” Patting his stringy blond mane, he added, “Besides, look at my hair. That’s royal hair if I’ve ever seen it.”

  “It certainly is fabulous,” Loly grunted. “Hey, if you can tear yourself away from yourself, get over here.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to show you something.” She turned to Magistrate Illinois and ordered, “Take a hike, Chicago. Me and big brother need some alone time.” After Illinois departed, Loly repeated, “Get over here.”

  “As you wish, Queen-to-be.” While flitting across the room, he asked, “What is it those Dorkis call their Queens? It’s starts with a K, and they always capitalize it.”

  “KERBANGER.”

  “Right, KERBANGER in caps. Is it true they used to use italics?” Vladymyr asked.

  “Correct,” Loly explained. “But the Dorks’ printing equipment isn’t particularly sophisticated, and their italics always looked lousy, thus the caps.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. So. In a few days, I’ll be KERBANGER Lolyta. How cool is that? Youngest KERBANGER in Dork history.”

  “That’s wonderful, little sister. Now why did you want me to come over here?”

  “Quick favor.” Unfastening four of the rectangles, she said, “Can you pinch the tip of this, please?” She pointed at her bare breast.

  Vladymyr squinched up his face at the sight of his sister’s nipple. “What’s this, Loly?” he inquired.

  “A nipple. You’ve probably seen them before. Granted, never one as perfect as this.”

  Vladymyr mumbled, “It’s not as perfect as the ones on the queynte who’ll be playing you on the HBO show.”

  “HB what?”

  “Small screen,” he explained, then adjusted a growing bulge in his crotch and continued, “I’ve seen plenty of perfect nipples before. Boys have them too, you know.”

  “You mean you’ve seen other boys’ nipples?” Loly asked.

  “Um, no. No. No, I’ve seen my own nipples, and they’re perfect. And girls’ nipples. And lots of them. Lots and lots of them. Lots and lots and lots of them. And I know exactly what to do with girls’ nipples, that’s for sure.”

  Loly smiled. “Perfect. I was hoping you’d know what to do with nipples, because I’d like you to do that to mine.”

  Vladymyr puckered his lips as if he’d jammed his tongue deep into a giant lemon. “I’d rather not. That’s gross.”

  “Why is it gross?” Loly asked, freeing her other breast. “We’re siblings. And according to the page and the small screen, that’s what siblings do. Do stuff with their siblings’ nipples. Among other things.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I’d rather you did.”

  “It would be gross.”

  “It would be lovely. As future KERBANGER, I command you, Vladymyr of the House Targetpractice, the Zillionth of His Name, King of the Sandals and the Ryebread, Lord of the Who-the-Heck-Knows-How-Many Kingdoms and Protector of the Elves, to pinch my nipple as hard as you can, and not to stop until I’m either screaming or bleeding.”

  Vladymyr’s pale face paled to the point of translucence, and several dots of sweat materialized on his forehead. “If you insist,” he whispered, then gingerly reached out his right hand and grazed his sister’s right nipple with his pinky, then jerked his hand away as if Loly’s breast were piping hot, which it arguably was, although not as hot as the ones on the queynte who played Loly on the first season of the HBO show.

  Loly said, “Really, Vladymyr? Really? That’s it? That’s the best you can do? I can find a duck who’d do that better.”

  Shaking his head, Vladymyr said, “I don’t understand your obsession with ducks. You’re the only person in Easterrabbit who yammers on about ducks. With everybody else in this Godsforsaken story, it’s all games, and thrones, and clashes, and kings, and storms, and swords, and feasts, and crows, and dances, and dragons, and mud, and onions. But with you, it’s all ducks, ducks, ducks.”

  As she removed her dress, Loly said, “And I don’t get your obsession with dragons.”

  “Dragons are fab,” Vladymyr pouted.

  “Dragons are extinct. And nobody cares about them. Hell, there aren’t even any in The Lord of the Rings,” Loly noted.

  “Yeah, but there’s one in The Hobbit,” Vladymyr said. “Smaug.”

  Waving her hand dismissively, Loly said, “Tolkien’s a schmuck. You can’t trust anybody who has that many Rs in his name. I mean, J. R. R.? Seriously?” She paused, then continued, “So listen, are you going to pinch the hell out of my nipples or not?”

  “Not.”

  “Fine,” she simpered. “Then get out of my face, you girly-man.”

  “I am not a girly-man!”

  “You go ahead and keep telling yourself that, Vladymyr. And send Illinois in here. I need a bath.”

  After the Magistrate filled up the tub, Loly climbed in and positioned herself so her head was the only part of her body not submerged in water. Once Loly was settled, Illinois turned to leave, but before she could even take a step, the future KERBANGER said, “Don’t move a muscle. I need to do the thing.”

  The Magistrate took a deep breath and asked, “Must you?”

  Loly said, “I must.”

  “And with me here?”

  “I must,” Loly repeated, then spread her legs apart and rubbed herself in the spot where virtually all of the thirteen-year-old girls in Easterrabbit like to rub themselves. Her mouth opened, her eyes went to half-mast, her breathing quickened, and Magistrate Illinois covered her ears, because she knew what was coming next:

  “Oh my Gods,” she yelled, “bring it, bring it, bring it! Right there! Harder! Now softer! Now faster! Now rounder! Rounder! Rounder! Yes, yes, yes, give me those scallions, you stud! Scallion me like you’ve never scallioned before!”

  After Loly finished (twice), Magistrate Illinois said, “Do you still need me here, ma’am?”

  Flushed, Loly panted, “Give me a minute to recover. That was a good one. Or a good two, I gues
s.” Once she regained her composure, she complained, “If stupid Vladymyr would’ve tweaked my nipple like I asked, I might’ve gone for a tripleheader. Can you grab my robe?”

  “As you wish, Lolyta.”

  Immediately after Loly donned her garb, there was a harsh knock at the door, so harsh that it caused the walls to shake. Loly and Illinois exchanged nervous glances, after which Loly asked, “Who’s there?”

  No answer—just another knock. Except it was louder.

  This time Magistrate Illinois asked, “Who’s there?”

  Another knock. Even louder.

  Loly pulled her robe tighter, grumbled, “Screw this,” and then wandered over to the door and flung it open. She was greeted by a sight unlike anything she had ever seen.

  Loly looked the creature up and down, taking in his long, oily black hair, his bottomless black eyes, his bulging chest, his toned arms, his flat stomach, his creative facial hair, his four legs, his shaggy tail, and his enormous horse dong. Their eyes met, and after a seemingly endless staring contest, she said, “Ivan Drago, I presume.”

  The manhorse nodded and grunted, “Ooga booga. Unga bunga. Moo moo moo, poo poo poo.”

  She gave him a half grin and said, “That’s easy for you to say, handsome. Why don’t you and your tail come on in here?” As Ivan Drago hopped over the threshold, Lolyta Tornadobutt, Princess of Duckseventually, asked him, “So what’s your stance on nipple pinching?”

  JUAN

  Being that he was a jerkoff, Juan Nieve knew he would never be invited to the feast celebrating the arrival of the House Barfonme royal family, but that did not stop him from hovering outside of the castle to get a peek at what many were calling the event of the season … and considering the season lasted a lengthy, yet undetermined, unexplained period of time, that was saying something.

  Normally he was not the type of boy to arrive at an event such as this without asking or being asked, but A) if he did not go, he would have lost one of his few chapters, and a relatively important one at that, as without this chapter, we would not meet another character who will die a painful and surprising death, and B) he was feeling randy, so he figured that rather than stay home, grab a scoop of oily mud, and pleasure himself, he would hang out by the castle and see if his Barker bloodline would impress any unattached young ladies. If that failed, he could always use his adorable direpanda—whom he had named Fourshadow—as chick-bait. And if that failed, he would go home, grab a scoop of oily mud, and pleasure himself.

  Juan positioned himself by the side of the building, peeked through an open window, and found the feast a sight to behold, and a scent to be-smell. The interior and exterior walls of the castle were covered with the banners of the two Houses in attendance—you’re already familiar with the Barker insignia; the Barfonmes were represented by a fluffy black and white kitty cat—and the attendees were dressed in their finest finery. There was enough food on the long tables to feed all of Summerseve: yak with boar sauce, boar with yak sauce, leg of wolf with a citrus coulis, a thick stew with some red chunks that Juan could not readily identify, onion soup, onion tarts, onion juice, onion steaks, and whole onions swimming in an onion puree.

  One by one, House Barker’s important characters walked the dining room’s red carpet, where they were accosted by a slender, red-haired, loud woman who shoved a long stick in each of their faces and asked them odd questions like “Who are you wearing?” and “Can you tell me about your latest project?” This both confused and bored Juan to no end, so he decided to relocate.

  When he repositioned himself at the front of the castle, he got a gander at Sur Jagweed Sinister, and he could not look away, as Jagweed was an Easterrabbitian legend, at once revered and feared by the continent’s denizens. Over the last several Summers, Jagweed had attempted to assassinate dozens of rulers, including King Rychard DeThyrd, King Hynry DeEighth, King Solomon DeOnly, King Kong DeGrylla, King Jarry Lawlyr, King Byskit Flowyrhour, Burgyr Kyng, and Gnat King Cohl. Jagweed’s plan of attack was nothing if not brave: Storm the castle all by himself, unsheath his oddly bent sword, and take down everybody in his path until he got to the throne, where he would mercilessly mutilate the ruler and endeavor to take over the region in the name of the family Sinister.

  Attempt after attempt failed spectacularly, as a wobbly sword constructed from anything other than Corinthian leather made for a useless weapon. His attacks were so feeble that, upon seeing Jagweed, the Kings who were under fire inevitably went on a laughing jag that led to them choking on an onion, which led to them dying without the benefit of Jagweed’s sword. This earned Sur Jagweed the moniker of the “Not-Kingslayer.”

  After Jagweed tripped over the House Barker threshold, he was accosted by the red-haired loudmouth, who asked the Not-Kingslayer, “Jagweed Sinister, what was it like to work with Martyn Skursaysay?”

  Again perplexed and fed up with the proceedings, Juan called over Fourshadow. The direpanda, who, in a mere three days, had grown to the size of a pony, staggered to his master. Juan gawked at his pet’s face and asked, “Santo mierda bolas,4 Fourshadow, what have you gotten yourself into?” He kneeled down and stared at the area around the animal’s mouth, which was covered with some sort of pinkish/purplish stain. Foreshadow gave Juan a huge lick on his face, and the jerkoff immediately discerned the source of the discoloration. “Your breath smells like a distillery. Where in the name of Dios5 did you get the grog, Fourshadow?”

  Fourshadow belched, gave Juan another lick, then collapsed to the muddy Earth, where he promptly fell asleep. Juan scanned the area, concerned that Fourshadow’s loud snoring would alert somebody to their presence.

  Sure enough, Juan heard a man call from the not-too-distant distance: “Who dares to intrude upon this feast of feasts? I bet it’s some jerkoff!”

  Recognizing the voice, Juan smiled and said, “I’m not just some jerkoff. I’m el más grande más enorme, apestosa6 jerkoff!”

  Approaching Juan, the man joked, “You sure are, Juan Nieve. You sure are.” And then the two embraced.

  “Sinjean Barker,” Juan exclaimed, “my uncle from another mother.”

  “That I am, Juan Nieve. That I am. So, as usual, you’re on the outside looking in, I see. That’s unfortunate. You want me to put together a doggie bag for you?”

  Rubbing his stomach, Juan admitted, “That red, chunky stew looks mighty interesting. Do you know what it is?”

  “Venison with red onions,” Sin explained.

  “Exactly what my stomach is calling for,” he rejoiced. “A heaping serving, por favor.7 And the more, the merrier. I need my strength.”

  “What for?” Sin asked.

  Pointing to the North, Juan exclaimed, “I must protect the Wall!”

  Sin pointed to the South and explained, “I believe the Wall is that way.”

  “Are you certain?” Juan asked.

  Sin scratched his head. “Actually, I’m not. All the maps of Easterrabbit are too small to discern. Especially the one in the mass market paperback.”

  “And good luck finding a hardback.”

  “I know, right? You can’t even get a trade paperback, let alone a hardcover. And those map replications you see online are a joke.”

  “No kidding,” Juan complained. “Mudo8 bloggers.”

  “Anyhow, why do you even want to go anywhere near the Wall?” Sin asked.

  “I want to be like you, Sin. I want to join the Fraternity of the Swatch!”

  After a long sigh, Sin whispered, “I think I know why you want to be a Swatchman.”

  “Is that so?” Juan queried. “And why is that?”

  Sin put his big hand on Juan’s thin shoulder and said, “My friend, no matter how hard you work, no matter how many lives you save, no matter how many of the Others you kill…”

  From the distance, a voice cried, “We’re not the Others! We’re the Awesomes, asshole!”

  “… you will always be a jerkoff,” Sin finished.

  “I understand, compadre,
”9 Juan said. “But why should I not strive to be the best jerkoff House Barker has ever seen?”

  “Why?” Sin exclaimed, his face becoming cloudy with anger. “Why?! Because you don’t know what it’s like on the Wall, man. You don’t know what it’s like down there in the shit. You don’t know what it’s like to have Charlie breathing down your neck day after day after day, to know that some Commie sniper has his rifle pointed at your heart from the second you get up, to the second you fall asleep. You don’t know what it’s like to see your buddy get fragged, then hold him in your arms, and hear him say with his dying breath, ‘Make sure you tell LaShonda and the kids I love ’em.’” Sin wiped a thin film of sweat from his forehead, then continued, “On the plus side, the acid down by the Wall is pretty good, so there’s that.”

  Juan roared, “Nothing you say will change my mind! Nada!”10

  Sin asked, “Is that right? Ever heard of Rush Year, young Juan?”

  “No.”

  “Ah,” Sin mused, “Rush Year. It’s sheer hell. Degrading. Insulting. Embarrassing. Lots of drinking. Full of boring contests that bring the story to a grinding halt. And that’s all I can say, because I took an oath of silence.”

  Puffing up his chest, Juan blustered, “None of that scares me, ese.”

  Sin shrugged. “It should.”

  “Well, it doesn’t. I’m pledging whether you like it or not.”

  Sin clapped him on the shoulder and said, “You do what you have to do, Juan Nieve. You’ll never survive, of course.” He looked at the castle, said, “Alrighty then, off to onion-fest,” and wandered inside.

  Juan felt an anger build within his soul, an emotion unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He spun around, took three running steps, tripped over the sleeping Fourshadow, and fell onto a man who was sitting in the mud. Jumping up, Juan said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”