A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (12 page)

She shrugged. “You gotta do what you gotta do. Just make sure you don’t kill Sasha’s direpanda by mistake. After all, they look a lot alike. It would be easy to get them confused, and you might kill the wrong one. If you know what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” Head asked.

“Hell,” Bobbert said, “even I know what she means. And I’m a drunk.”

“Hell,” Cerevix said, “even I know what she means. And I’m a bitch.”

“Hell,” the Sinister cousins said in unison, “even we know what she means. And we’re a bunch of inbred sociopaths.”

Head walked over to Malia and asked, “Where is your sister?”

“I don’t know,” Malia answered, “nor do I know where Stinky is. But it just so happens that Dinky is right outside the back door.”

Rubbing his beard pensively, Head stared contemplatively at the ceiling, then gazed thoughtfully at the floor, then glanced broodingly at the wall, then, heeding the will of his famished gut, said, “If I must kill the direpanda, then I must kill the direpanda.” He pulled Slush from its case, then marched meditatively toward the throne room door as if there were boulders attached to his ankles. He stopped in the doorway, paused for a minute, two minutes, three minutes. Finally he took a hitching breath, turned around, choked back a sob, and then asked everybody, “Is everybody cool with medium rare burgers?”

Lady Gateway Bully Barker and Maester Blaester stood behind the castle’s closed front door. As Gateway peered into her shoulder bag, she asked Maester Blaester, “Could we go over the checklist again?”

“Of course, m’Lady. Knook ereader?”

“Check,” she checked.

“Tequila?”

“Check,” she checked.

“Swimming attire, both two-piece and one-piece?”

“Check and check,” she checked.

“Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Sunblock, SPF 94,167,211,467?”

“Check.”

“Godsweede?”

“Check.”

“Glass Godsweede delivery system?”

“Check.”

“Advyl?”

“Check.”

Blaester claimed, “Then I believe you are ready for your excursion.”

Gateway queried, “Are the oddly named Knights waiting for me out front?”

“Of course, m’Lady: Sur Hornswaggle van der Putz, Sur Whiffenpoop Porkburger, Sur Dingotz Stugotz, Sur Ron Dee Ehm Cee, Sur Wylly Nylly, Sur Baron von Raschke, Sur Rufus T. Fyrefly, Sur Schmucko Cheesebreath, Sur Dyrk Dyggler, Sur Cankles Rottweiler, Sur Boris D’Spydr, Sur Bronski Motorboat, Sur Crayola Burntsienna, Sur Tushbutt Rumprear Fannyass, Sur Heywood Jablome, Sur Banjo McChucklehead, Sur Donnybrook Filibuster, Sur Mustache Bumbershoot, and, of course, Sur Taradiddle Slobberknocker.”

“What about Sur Hogwash Dipthong? I can’t leave Summerseve without Sur Hogwash Dipthong.”

“Sur Dipthong is running late, m’Lady. Shall I have him put to death when he arrives?”

“I would appreciate that,” Gateway said, nodding, and added, “Well, then, the sun is probably sinking into the ocean, so I must begin my journey.” She pulled some smoldering Godsweede from her cleavage, took a puff, grabbed Blaester’s face, mashed her lips against his, blew the smoky contents of her mouth into Blaester’s lungs, then told him, “Get up, stand up, don’t give up the fight,” after which she flashed him the peace sign.

Maester Blaester merely gurgled.

Gateway opened the front door and, after one step, found herself face-first in the mud. As she struggled to a sitting position, she looked around to see what had caused her to fall; it turned out to be not a
what,
but rather a
who,
a short
who
with a high-pitched voice.

“Can I help you?” she queried, wiping the mud from her eyes.

The man stuck out his tiny hand and said, “Lord Petey Varicose Bailbond. King Barfonme asked that I guide you back to Capaetal Ceity.”

Standing up then shaking his hand, Gateway asked, “What do you mean
back
to Capaetal Ceity?”

“Well, I arrived here just this morning.”

“When did you leave to come here?” Gateway wondered.

“Last evening.”

“How did you get here?”

Lord Bailbond pointed at his tiny horse. “Him.”

“And it took you only one day?”

He nodded. “Some say I do the work of two men.”

“Impressive.”

“Some say I can be in two places at once.”

“Cool.”

“Some say I’m a eunuch, but the fact of the matter is, I have a small member.”

“Too much information.”

“Understood,” the tiny johnson’d non-eunuch agreed, then offered Lady Gateway his arm. “I know a simply
wonderful
whorehouse in Cap Ceity where I can stash you. The best in town. You’ll fit right in. All the opium you can eat. Shall we?”

Gateway reached down, took his elbow, and smiled. “We shall.”

As they mounted their respective horses, Tinyjohnson said, “Oh, I should probably mention that it was Tritone Sinister who put out the hit on your nearly dead boy.”

From Allbran’s room:
“Godsdamn it, I’m fine!”

Ignoring her son, she asked, “How do you know it was Tritone?”

“It’s a lengthy tale that I’ll tell you during our lengthy journey. It’s a ripping yarn, too, full of intrigue, violence, backstabbing, double-crossing, and messy sex. It’s a pity that nobody other than you and I will get to hear it. Or read it.”

Aside from the fact that all the oddly named Knights aside from Burntsienna were slaughtered during a random battle that had nothing to do with anything, Gateway and Tinyjohnson’s journey to Capaetal Ceity was long and boring, and not worth recounting here. If this story were told on basic cable, we would jump to a commercial. But this isn’t TV.

It’s HBO.

King Bobbert was out on some errand or another—if Headcase were to lay a wager, he would have bet it involved grog—so, much to the new Foot’s chagrin, it was up to him to lead the weekly meeting of House Barfonme’s High Council. As Head looked around the table—a table covered with plates and plates of the best onions Capaetal Ceity had to offer—he wondered how and why Bobbert chose his advisers, because to Head’s eye, it was one Godsdamn motley crew.

Clad in a multicolored silk robe and a feathered hat, Tinyjohnson was positioned on Lord Barker’s left, while directly to Head’s right sat a man by the name of Bix Byderbek, a man who was shorter than Tinyjohnson and fatter than Bobbert. There were four people on the opposite side of the table: A bald, bucktoothed man named Wangle Strydant; a youngster named Hawkwynd Bagelthorp, who was as skinny as Byderbek was fat; a one-armed, one-legged gent named Cofffeee Teeormee; and an angry-looking deaf-mute who went only by the name Skype.

Head pounded the table with his fist—hard enough that it caused six onions to fall onto the floor, which caused Skype to look even angrier—then emitted, “Alright, this meeting is called to order. His Highness neglected to give me notes before he left town, so would anybody like to start?”

Tinyjohnson raised his tiny hand and offered, “I have a suggestion, Foot.” After a lengthy pause, he explained, “This is difficult for me to say.”

Desirous to make a pillow out of the onions and take a nap, Head grumbled, “Best to just say it, eunuch.”

“I’m not a eunuch, Foot.”

Staring at the feathered hat, Head drawled, “Riiiiiight, of course you’re not. Now speak your piece.”

“Well, good Foot Barker, it is the Council’s opinion that you need to rethink your wardrobe.”

Glancing at his brown burlap blouse, his gray burlap vest, and his tan burlap pants, Head asked, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Look around this table,” Tinyjohnson demanded. “We have certain standards here.”

Head took a gander at his cohorts’ respective outfits: Byderbek was wearing a tight white shirt with a long, skinny piece of material tied around his neck; Strydant had on an outfit similar to Head’s, the primary difference being that his burlap was thick and colorful, rather than thin and drab; Bagelthorp wore only a vest, which, in Head’s mind, was a mistake, as his ribs were as prominent as a snake who uncoiled himself in the stomach of a pregnant woman; Teeormee took Bagelthorp’s stylistic choice a bit further, choosing to wear no shirt at all; and Skype was covered shoulder-to-toe with what appeared to be dried mud.

Giving Tinyjohnson a defiant look, Head offered, “I don’t know, I feel like I’m doing okay here.”

Tinyjohnson shook his head and disagreed, “I disagree. When you represent House Barfonme, you have to represent it with class and grace.”

Pointing at Skype, Head pointed out, “But that one’s wearing mud.”

“It’s the classiest, most graceful mud in all of Capaetal Ceity,” Tinyjohnson noted.

“What about Bagelthorp?” Head asked. “Couldn’t he put on a shirt or something? His ribs are … distracting.”

“Bite your tongue.” Tinyjohnson winced. “Hawkwynd has spent years cultivating that look,
years
.”

Head rubbed his temples and sighed, “Fine. I’ll get some new clothes.”

Tinyjohnson beamed and clapped, then said, “Oh, goody! You and I shall go shopping posthaste. We’ll get you looking like a good Foot in no time.”

“Fantastic,” Headcase monotoned. “Hey, I’ve been wondering: How did this major metropolis end up with such a motley governing body? Are you all Lords of some particular land?”

“I am Lord of all that I wear,” Strydant said. “But not all that much otherwise.”

“Well, how did you get these positions?” Head asked, scratching his namesake. “It’s almost as if you were picked for your dramatic differences in style and culture.”

Tinyjohnson claimed, “We were elected, you might say.”

“By the people? Since when did we become a democracy?”

“No, no, no, there’s no democracy here. We were each chosen by the author…”

“The
what
?”

“Er, I mean, many Summers ago, King Bobbbbbbbbb Barfonme thought a diverse council would appeal to multiple demographics.” He then whispered, “Phew, that’s thinking on your feet.”

Everybody heard his whisper. But everybody ignored it. Because everybody wanted this meeting—and this chapter—over and done with.

Head asked, “Is there anything, um, important to discuss? Something about, oh, I don’t know, ways to make Capaetal Ceity a better place to live?”

Teeormee raised his hand and said, “Did anybody mention to you that we’re broke?”

Head blinked. “Broke?” he asked.

“Yep,” Teeormee confirmed. “Broke. Busted. Empty. Drained. Penniless. Impoverished. Destitute. We got nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. Bupkus—”

“Okay,” Head interrupted, “I get it. There isn’t any money.”

“Not a Godsdamn cent. Naught. Goose egg. Zip. Zippo. Zipper. Zipperino.”

After he stopped, Head asked, “You done?”

Teeormee scratched his head, then asked, “Did I say impoverished?”

Head nodded.

“Then yeah, I’m done.”

“Fantastic,” Headcase monotoned. “Anybody have any ideas how we can dig ourselves out of this mess?”

“Burn it all down!” Bagelthorp exclaimed. “Burn down the whole Godsdamn city. We’re insured up to the hilt.”

Tinyjohnson spun on Bagelthorp and roared, “Hawkwynd, get it through your thick skull that insurance does not exist, thus we are not insured!”

Bagelthorp mumbled, “Tell that to my Stayte Farmm agent.”

Ignoring him, Head asked, “Any other thoughts?” After nobody responded, he said, “I have an idea. We can borrow.”

“From who?” Strydant queried.

“From another country,” Head explained. “From a country that is benevolent, and kind, and wealthy, and willing to not ream us with an outrageous interest rate: Chyna.”

Everybody at the table groaned, then Byderbek said, “We already owe them four million whatevers.”

Head screwed up his face and wondered, “What do you mean,
whatevers
?”

“Cap Ceity’s monetary units have never been made clear,” Tinyjohnson explained.

“How about for the sake of this discussion, we call them dollars, like we do in Summerseve?” Head offered.

“I don’t know,” Bagelthorp said. “Pesos sounds better.”

Teeormee offered, “I vote for lira.”

“How about euros?” Byderbek asked.

Strydant suggested, “Dingleberries. I like dingleberries.”

“I’m sure you do,” Head said, “but the decision rests with the Foot, and the Foot says dollars. The Foot also says we’re borrowing more whatevers, er, dollars from Chyna. We’ll pay them back when we can…” After a pause, he added,
“maybe!”

At that, the entire Council broke down in laughter.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Head said, “Ahhh, that was a good one. Sometimes I crack myself up.” He stood up, clapped once, and said, “On that note, gentlemen, meeting adjourned.”

After everybody other than Head and Tinyjohnson filed out of the room, the self-professed non-eunuch turned to the Foot and chanted, “I have a surprise for you, Lord Barker. What’s your stance on prostitutes?”

“Well,” he responded, “I probably don’t like them as much as Bobbert, but they’re okay with me. Why?”

“You want the short version or the long version?”

“The short version, I beg you,” he begged, “for the love of Gods, the short version! At this rate, we’ll be looking at 751 pages in hardback, and 900-plus in mass market.”

Tinyjohnson offered, “Lady Gateway needs to speak with you, and she wanted to remain incognito, so I stashed her away at a whorehouse.”

Grinning, Head exclaimed, “Genius! There hasn’t been nearly enough non-incestuous sex in these proceedings. Take me to the hookers, Tinyjohnson! Take me now!”

The moment Head and Tinyjohnson set foot in the whorehouse, they were assaulted by a stench composed of male ejaculate, female ejaculate, male sweat, female sweat, money, Rush by Gucci, M by Mariah, Tommy Girl, Fantasy by Britney, opium, and onions. As Lord Barker gagged, Tinyjohnson took a deep breath and said, “Ah, nothing gets me turned on like the scent of a semi-legal iniquity den.”

Head glanced suspiciously at Tinyjohnson’s beltline, and mumbled, “There’s nothing down there to turn on.”

Tinyjohnson, who either did not hear or ignored Head, said, “I believe Lady Gateway is in the opium den,” then pointed to the closed door across from the entrance.