A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (13 page)

Head sighed, “Of course she is,” then, followed by Tinyjohnson, he trudged across the floor, ignoring the fifteen women who caressed his manhood along the way.

The opium den’s only occupant, Lady Gateway Barker, was curled up on a white vinyl beanbag chair, her face buried in a pile of pulverized poppy seeds. She rolled over onto her back, then, without getting up, roared, “Heady Heady Heady!” Then she put the powder on the floor and spread open both her arms and her legs.

Headcase Barker liked opium-fueled sex as much as the next Lord, but he had Footing to do, so he took Gateway’s hands, pulled her to her feet, and suggested, “Let’s get you to the castle.”

She jerked away and snapped, “No! No no no no no! I’m staying here. Forget this Lady business. I want to have sex for money, and smoke all the dope I want.” Then she plopped back down onto the beanbag.

“Darling,” Head cajoled, “we have this discussion once a year. You are not, repeat,
not
going to become a whore.”

“You used to be cool, Heady,” Gateway pouted.

Tinyjohnson piped up, “Both of you, shut up and listen: Tritone Sinister was behind the plot to kill Allbran.”

Lady Gateway Barker stared at Lord Headcase Barker. Lord Headcase Barker stared back at Lady Gateway Barker. Lord Petey Varicose Bailbond stared at Lord Headcase Barker and Lady Gateway Barker. Lord Headcase Barker and Lady Gateway Barker stared at Lord Petey Varicose Bailbond. After several more minutes of back-and-forth staring, Gateway said, “Screw this. I’m totally becoming a whore.”

“Faster, Nieve, you jerkoff! And get those knees up! Your form is horrible!” After Juan did not respond, the man in the sloppy, mud-covered suit yelled, “Do you hear me, plebe? March faster, march taller, march stronger!
March, march, march!
”

“
Sí, gilipollas
²⁹
Cooke,” Juan answered.

“For the millionth time, what the hell does
gilipollas
mean?”

“For the millionth time, read the footnote!”

“For the millionth time, what the hell is a footnote?”

“For the millionth time,
chingar a su madre
!”
³⁰

“For the millionth time, what does
chingar a su madre
mean?”

“For the millionth time, read the footnote!”

Broheim Alistair Cooke glared at Juan and roared, “Alright, Nieve, drop your sword and drink a shot!”

Juan unclenched his naked butt cheeks, and the sword that had been jammed up his posterior fell to the muddy ground with a squish. His Frat Broheim Bluto threw him a green bottle and said, “Bottoms up, jerkoff.”

“Indeed,” Juan sighed, then removed the cork from the bottle and took a single guzzle. As he grimaced, a fire raged in his belly, his head spun, and his face became nearly as green as the bottle.

He heard an evil laugh that could only belong to one man: Broheim Otter. “Yo, Nieve, why don’t you just boot and get it over with?”

Determined to hold down his gorge, Juan said, “Yo, Otter,
yo cago en la leche de tu puta madre
!”
³¹

Otter laughed, then started to chant: “Boot! Boot! Boot! Boot!” The other pledges—Bluto, Flounder, Pinto, and D-Day—picked up Otter’s mantra, and pretty soon, Juan had no choice but to hurl. Seeing the contents of his stomach mix with the wet mud set him off again, and he retched until he could retch no more. Once his gut was empty, his fellow pledges gave him a heartfelt round of applause.

Broheim Cooke said, “That was wonderful, Nieve, but now you have to put the sword back into your poopshoot and march back to base camp.”

“Okay,
ese
.”

“I’m not going to ask what
ese
means,” Broheim Cooke noted, “because I don’t think there’s a footnote attached, and if there’s not a footnote, it’s either not that important, or it can be gleaned from context, or it’s something so obvious that it needs no explanation.”

Juan did not answer, lost in thoughts of how much he hated the Fraternity of the Swatch. He came here not just to defend his continent, but also to find some semblance of acceptance, as he was not getting much in Summerseve. Instead, the Swatchmen seemed to enjoy creating conflict even when there was none, as if to put off going over the Wall and battling the Others. Perhaps it built suspense, but it also meant that Juan’s chapters were not as important as Headcase’s (Juan knew this for a fact, because he had cheated and read them); Head’s chapters dealt with questions of murder and conspiracy, while Juan’s dealt with puking. And here, by the Wall, his so-called brothers treated him worse than anybody in his pseudo-family ever had. Lady Gateway was not always nice to him, but at least she never got a bunch of her friends together to serenade him with chants of “Jerk
off,
jerk
off,
jerk
off,
jerk
off
!”

They allowed Juan to remove his sword from his hindquarters when he returned to his tent, but they would not let him sit down, nor would they let him put on his clothes. “Nieve, Pinto,” Broheim Cooke called, “front and center.” The two Fratboys hustled to the middle of the campground, where they stood at attention, side by side. “Gentlemen,” Cooke said, “it is time for you two to battle.”

Unsurprisingly, Otter started a chant of “Battle, battle, battle, battle!”

Pinto asked, “What kind of battle, Broheim Cooke?” He eyed Juan nervously, as Juan was by far the best swordfighter amongst the pledges.

“No swords this time, Broheim Pinto.” He pulled two items from behind his back and offered, “Gentlemen, choose your weapons.”

Juan gawked at the contents of Cooke’s hands. “Are you serious? Pillows?
Ay, chihuahua
.”
³²

“Taking out an opponent with a sword is child’s play,” Cooke claimed. “To take out an opponent with a pillow, you have to be a true craftsman.” He threw the pillows at the two boys—Juan caught his easily, while Pinto’s fell into the mud—and explained, “The rules are simple: Last one standing wins. Start on three. One … two…”

Before Broheim Cooke finished his count, Pinto smacked Juan upside his head. There was no pain—Pinto was the smallest of the pledges—but something snapped in Juan’s brain. The weeks of physical abuse, mind games, and booting caught up to him, and he felt stronger and more focused than he had in his entire life.

Juan easily ducked Pinto’s next salvo, then circled his pillow over his head three times and brought it down upon Pinto’s temple. Pinto staggered, but managed to remain upright. Before he was able to raise his pillow for attack, however, Juan smacked him on the opposite temple, then followed up that shot with a blow to the jaw. This time, Pinto did fall over, rump first. He looked up at the sky, clearly dazed.

“Come on, Pinto,” D-Day called, “send this jerkoff over the Wall!”

Juan picked up a handful of mud and flung it at D-Day’s midsection. While his throw was remarkably fast, his aim was slightly off, so rather than hitting D-Day in the solar plexus, the mudball nailed him in his groin. After D-Day turned ghost white and passed out, the remaining pledges shut their mouths.

Pinto looked at Broheim Cooke, lifted his right arm into the air, and said, “I’m done.”

“That’s right you are, Pinto,” Juan gritted, after which he spiked his pillow onto the ground and stomped away from the tents. Nobody called after him.

The closer he got to the Wall, the angrier he became. Needing to burn off some energy, he took three running steps, then tripped over a man who was sitting in the mud, legs crossed. Jumping up, Juan said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“That’s the
second
time anybody’s ever said that about me.” The man looked at Juan’s naked body, pointed at the appendage dangling between his legs, and said, “Wow, that thing’s so small you could turn it sideways and it’d disappear.”

Juan sat up and greeted him. “Good afternoon, Tritone.”

“You gotta quit tripping over me, Shecky. You might hurt yourself. Or, more importantly, you might hurt me. But I’m not seeing this issue going away, because from what I can tell, you’re so klutzy that you could trip over a cordless phone.”

“A cordless
what
?” Juan asked.

“You’re so klutzy that you couldn’t make your way out of a paper bag if it was open on both ends.”

“A
what
bag?”

“You’re so klutzy that shit thinks you smell bad.” Tritone paused, then mumbled to himself, “Wait, that doesn’t make sense.”

Juan stood up and said,
“Joder este ruido, me voy de aquí. Paz a cabo, hijo de puta.”
³³

Tritone smiled. “I don’t know what language you’re speaking, but I’ll say this: It sure is beautiful. Nothing that sounds so lovely could be insulting.”

“
Sí
,
comediante
. Nothing in my language could be insulting.”

As he returned to the camp, Juan realized that he did not want to be a Swatchman, nor did he want to be a Barker. All he wanted was to be left the hell alone. When he made it back to his tent, he grabbed a shirt and some pants, but before he could get dressed, Broheim Cooke took him by his elbow and dragged him behind a tree.

Juan angrily pulled his arm away and asked, “What do you want,
ese
?”

Cooke handed Juan a pile of envelopes and said, “You got some ravengrams, jerkoff.” As Juan snatched the notes from Cooke, the head Broheim said, “You’re lucky they even made it. What with all the Internet cafés between here and Summerseve, most ravens e-mail their messages, and the Wall doesn’t offer wireless, so no e-mails for us.”

Juan tore open the first note:
Dear Jerkoff,
it said,
I regret to inform you that due to his fall from the castle roof, your pseudo-brother Allbran Barker is crippled for life. Please include him in your prayers. Sincerely, Lord Headcase Barker
.

Blinking back tears, Juan tore open the second note:
Dear Juan,
it said,
I just wanted to let you know that I’m feeling great, and no matter what Maester Blaester says, I’m going horse riding with Bobb tomorrow. Kill some of the Others for me!!! Love, Allbran
.

His heart filled with joy, Juan tore open the third note:
Dear Jerkoff,
it said,
Allbran is in horrible, horrible pain. If you were any kind of brother, you would be here to support him. But instead, you chose country over family. I hope you are happy with yourself, you selfish jerkoff. XOX, Lady Gateway
.

With steam coming out of his ears, Juan tore open the third note:
Dear Juan,
it said,
Everybody is driving me crazy, and I want out. If you come and get me, we can run to the Wall and I can pledge for the Fraternity of the Swatch. And yes, I said “run,” because I
can
run, no matter what anybody says. Love, Allbran
.

His heart filled with joy, Juan tore open the fourth note:
Dear Brother,
it said,
Allbran’s hurt. It sucks, but we’ll be okay, because I’m in charge. Best, Bobb
.

Rolling his eyes, Juan tore open the fifth note:
Dear Juan,
it said,
I’m fine. Love, Allbran
.

The next note read,
Dear Juan, Allbran’s dead. Yours, Lord Barker
.

Next:
No I’m not
.
Love
,
Allbran
.

Next:
Yes he is
.
Maester Blaester
.

Next:
I hate you, Blaester
.
Allbran
.

Next:
Quit farting, Allbran
.
You stink
.
Best, Bobb
.

Thirty-six letters later, it was clear that Allbran might or might not be healthy, Bobb might or might not be in charge, Gateway might or might not be crazy, and Head might or might not be in or out of the loop. Trudging back to his tent, he thought,
Maybe the Fraternity of the Swatch isn’t that bad after all
.

The small, hairless man clad in the skintight one-piece outfit clapped his hands three times and snapped, “How many times do I have to tell you: We’re starting with a double lutz, then transitioning into a triple salchow! I’m happy to stay here all day until you quit doing that Godsdamn axel!”

Malia Barker picked herself up from the small patch of ice in the middle of the muddy field behind the Barfonme castle and complained, “All these stupid jumps look exactly the same.”

Cereal Foreskin, Malia’s new ice skating instructor, said, “Well, missy, they are most definitely
not
the same.” Cereal then went on to explain the difference between lutzes, salchows, axels, toe loops, and flips, a confusing and ultimately useless explanation that took almost three hours. Halfway through the lecture, Malia was seriously contemplating removing her ice skates and slitting Cereal’s throat, and then her own.

After Cereal’s interminable sermon came to its conclusion, Malia pointed out, “Cereal Foreskin, you can explain this stuff until you’re blue in the face—which you are—but it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference, because Summer is coming, and when Summer comes, all the ice will be gone.” She gestured to the tiny circle of frozen-ish mud she was balancing upon and noted, “It’s not like we have all that much to work with right now.”

Sighing, Cereal agreed, “You’re right, Malia. But House Barfonme signed me to a long-term contract during the Winter, and if I stop teaching, I stop getting paid, and that simply won’t do. So you get on that ice and do that lutz/salchow combo right now, or I’ll, well, I’ll murder you.”

A white-hot bolt of anger shot through Malia and she pulled Syringe out from behind her ear and sneered, “You’re not the boss of me, Cereal Foreskin!”