A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (15 page)

When Loly told Magistrate Illinois about the dreams, Magistrate gave her a strange look and explained, “KERBANGER, it sounds like you’re dreaming of ducks. And you’re obsessed with ducks. You’re the Princess of Duckseventually, for Gods’ sake.”

“Those aren’t ducks, Chicago. Ducks are huge, bigger than you could ever imagine, and they’re green, and they have scales, and a long tail covered with thorny things, and they breathe fire.
Duh
.”

“My KERBANGER, you’re talking about dragons,” Illinois explained.

“No, I’m definitely talking about ducks. Dragons look like horses, except they have black and white stripes.”

“Those are zebras, my KERBANGER.”

“No, zebras are short,” Loly claimed, “and are black with white tummies, and they waddle, and even though they have wings, they can’t fly.”

“Those are penguins, my KERBANGER.”

Loly flung open her bedroom door and called,
“Vladymyr!”

Her brother was there in the blink of a dragon’s eye. “Yes, sister dear?”

“Tell Magistrate Illinois what dragons look like.”

“Horses, except with black and white stripes,” Vladymyr explained.

Illinois rolled her eyes and stomped out of the room, mumbling, “House Targetpractice and their Godsdamn home schooling.”

Loly called to Illinois, “Before this is all said and done, I bet you a duck’ll play a big role in this story!” She turned to Vladymyr and asked, “Ducks will play a big role in this story, won’t they? I mean, we’ve been going on and on about them, and it has to lead
somewhere
.”

Before Vladymyr could answer, a Dorki galloped into the bedroom and said, “Congo bongo, bongo congo, riding lesson.”

Vladymyr gave Loly a shocked look, then asked her in a whisper, “Did he just say
riding lesson
?”

She whispered back, “Yeah. They seem to be picking up the language.”

“Weird. That was quick,” he noted.

The KERBANGER shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s go ride.”

The Targetpractices both enjoyed their lessons for the same reason: Rather than ride on horses, they rode on Dorkis, and to Loly and Vladymyr, straddling a male Dorki’s back was far more satisfying than straddling a horse’s back. (Vladymyr wasn’t impressed with his first Dorki, a female called Ivan Barbara, so he whined until they gave him a male named Ivan Kevin.) Loly had become quite attached to her lesson Dorki, Ivan George, and taking into account the way he moaned when she straddled him, she thought that he liked her too.

It was their fifth lesson, and Loly was already an expert at riding a Dorki; truth be told, she did not need any more lessons, but she did not want to stop. Vladymyr, on the other hand, seemed confused, almost as if he were trying to find himself.

After they both mounted their centaurs, Ivan George said, “Oingo boingo, let’s go go go go.”

Under his breath, Vladymyr asked Loly, “Did he just say, ‘let’s go go go go’?”

“Who cares?” she asked.

Vladymyr claimed, “It’s weird that they went from being subhuman morons to decent speakers in only a few chapters.”

Ivan Kevin growled, “Bippety boppety boo, I can totally hear you.”

Pointing at the Dorki, he hissed to Loly,
“See?!”

As she scratched Ivan George behind the ear, she told Vladymyr, “As your KERBANGER, I command you to shut up.” To Ivan George, she exclaimed, “Oingo boingo, let’s go go go go!”

After their lesson—which, as usual, they both enjoyed a bit too much—they jumped off their Dorkis and walked slowly back to the castle. Loly did not have much to say, as she was focused on the tingling in her loins. Vladymyr, who seemed to have trouble walking, was equally quiet. Right before they entered the castle, Loly noticed her brother was adjusting something below his beltline, his expression a combination of pleasure and pain. Staring at his beltline, Loly asked, “Everything okay, brother dear?”

He pulled his hand away from below his waist and began to furiously scratch his head. “Everything’s fine,” he claimed. “Why would you think it wasn’t? I’m great. As a matter of fact, I’m perfect. No, I’m
fierce
!”

Loly stared at her brother for an awkward moment, then asked, “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“What? Tell you? What do you mean? Tell you what? Nothing to tell here. I’m fierce.”

“I’m sure you are,” she said. After another uncomfortable pause, she blustered, “I’m just going to come right out and say it: Do you like boys?”

He pshawed, “No way! You
know
I like girls. For that matter, I
love
girls. I’m all about the tang. I mean, look how often I pinch your nipples.”

“And I do love that,” Loly admitted, “but I sometimes feel like you’re doing it to, I don’t know, compensate or something.”

Vladymyr’s face turned beet red, and he screeched, “You shut up, little Miss Duckseventually! You shut up right now! Girls are the best! Nothing’s better than what goes on between their legs,
nothing
! If there was a girl here right now, I’d dive on in.”

Loly pointed out, “I’m here. And as they say all over Easterrabbit, incest is best.”

Vladymyr stammered, “But … but … but … you’re
married
!”

Shrugging, Loly said, “I’m cool with it if you are.”

They stared at one another for a couple of beats, then Vladymyr stomped off, chanting, “All about the tang, all about the tang, all about the tang…”

Loly called, “Come out of the closet, brother dear!” When he didn’t respond, she whispered to herself, “Come out of the closet,” then slowly and thoughtfully walked back to her bedchamber.

Headcase sat in the muddy bank of the muddy Capaetal Ceity River, staring at the placid water as if it were a snake coiling then uncoiling, unconcerned that the new feather-covered outfit Tinyjohnson had procured for him was growing filthier by the second. Tinyjohnson, however, seemed less than pleased.

“Your Footness,” the non-eunuch whined, unsuccessfully attempting to keep the whininess out of his voice, “those silken trousers were not made for sitting in a muddy riverbank and staring at placid water as if it were a snake coiling then uncoiling.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Head lied, “but there are more pressing matters on my mind. I have birthed an idea.”

Tinyjohnson said, “Birthed an idea? That sounds disgusting.”

“I’m certain anything having to do with birthing sounds disgusting to you, eunuch.”

Indignant, Tinyjohnson declared, “I am
not
a eunuch!” He motioned as if to pull down his trousers, then asked, “Would you care to see the proof?”

Head picked up two fistfuls of mud and rubbed them into his eyes, then begged, “Again, no, no, for the love of Gods, no. For the sake of argument, I will stipulate that you are not a eunuch, and will never mention it again. This isn’t to say that somebody else won’t mention it a few chapters down the road, but there you have it.”

“Thank you,” Tinyjohnson sighed. After a pause, he added, “I can show it to you anyhow. Just for fun.”

After putting more mud over his eyes, Head reiterated, “Thank you, but no. Now I called you down here to discuss how we can get Capaetal Ceity out of this financial mess. I have decided we shall have a festyval.”

“You mean a festival?” Tinyjohnson asked.

“No,” Head reiterated, “I mean a festyval. With a
y
. I shall call it the Woodstok Festyval of Frolicking, Fryvolity, and Fyghting. It will be three days of war and screaming. The fee shall be ten dollars per day, and the population of Cap Ceity is two hundred thousand, so if every citizen attends the festyval each day, that will net us six million dollars, which will give us more than enough money to repay our loans from Chyna. Not that we
will
repay them, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Tinyjohnson stated, “I greatly doubt that everybody in the Ceity will attend.”

“Oh, they will, Tinyjohnson.”

“How do you know?”

“Simple: Those who miss the festyval will be beheaded.”

Beaming, Tinyjohnson exclaimed, “Now
that
is how you Foot!”

As Juan Nieve cleaned the mud from his shoes, he mumbled, “
Barro maldito,
³⁵
barro maldito,
³⁶
barro maldito,
³⁷
then glanced at the Wall, noting the puddles forming at its base. “I can’t imagine what will happen to that thing now that Summer is coming,” he grumbled.

From behind him, a voice asked, “Is Summer indeed coming?”

Without turning around, Juan agreed, “Yes.
El verano se acerca
.”
³⁸

“Summer is coming?” the voice asked.

“El verano se acerca,”
³⁹
Juan agreed.

“Summer is coming?” the voice asked.

“El verano se acerca,”
⁴⁰
Juan agreed, then he turned around and found himself face-to-stomach with a boy who could generously be described as husky, but would more realistically be described as repulsively obese. “Can I help you,
el gordo
?”
⁴¹
Juan asked.

The fat boy said, “Don’t call me fat boy.”

Juan gave the fat boy a long look, then whispered, “You understand my language. You are the only person in all of Easterrabbit who does.” With a lump in his throat, he said, “I feel a lump in my throat.”

Rubbing his jiggly gut, the fat boy said, “And I feel a lump in my stomach.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then ran into an embrace, the boy falling on top of Juan. The jerkoff coughed,
“Gxgglmrldtwop.”
⁴²

The boy rolled off of Juan, then apologized, “I apologize. Bad habit.” He then offered Juan his hand and said, “Snackwell Fartly, rotund one from the city of Heavensmurgatroyd.”

While shaking Snackwell’s porky hand, Juan pulled himself up and said, “Juan Nieve, jerkoff from the city of Summerseve.” After a beat, Juan pointed out, “Don’t take this the wrong way—you seem like a great guy and all—but it’s kind of odd that you just rolled up here, out of nowhere. Doesn’t make sense that some strange fat kid would just
show up
. It’s like you’re there to remind us of the importance of staying healthy, or maybe you’re a metaphor for alienation. Or maybe comic relief. Whatever you’re doing here, it’s random, and it had better lead somewhere, because the last thing this story needs is another character who’s there just to fill space.” Pointing at Snackwell’s jiggly tummy, Juan added, “But I will say this: if there’s one thing I bet you’re good at, it’s filling space.”

A brilliant grin overtook Snackwell’s face, a smile so beatific that for a brief moment, it was almost as if his corpulence was not an issue … the key word being
almost,
because Snackwell’s corpulence would
always
be an issue. “Juan Nieve, you and I will be great friends. You’re a jerkoff, and I’m a fatass. We’re two peas in a pod.”

“Well, Snackwell, that would have to be an awfully big pod!” Juan joked, and then the boys laughed, and laughed, and laughed. After the chuckles died, Juan asked, “So, fatass, if you’re not a metaphor, what brings you to the Wall?”

“Well, jerkoff, I want to start Rush Year today! I want to be a member of the Fraternity of the Swatch!”

Shaking his head, Juan said, “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do!” Snackwell cried. “I want to defend the border! I want to have adventures! I want to be a metaphor! I want to be a simile! I want to be an allegory! I want to battle the Others…”

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

“… and most importantly, I want to be part of a brotherhood.”

A voice from behind called, “You would be a wonderful addition to the family.”

The two outcasts turned around, and Juan sneered, “Hello, Otter.”

“Hi, there, jerkoff,” Otter sneered back. “Who’s the fatass?” Snackwell offered Otter his hand and an introduction, to which Otter—ignoring the proffered hand—pointed out, “You’re the fattest person I’ve ever seen. I bet you can boot like there’s no tomorrow.”

Snackwell scratched his head, then asked, “Boot?”

“Yeah, boot. You know, barf. Hurl. Heave. Honk. Ralph. Gack. Wolf. Urp. Spew. Chunk. Earl. Yak.”

After a bit of silence, Juan asked, “Are you done?”

“Oh, Gods no,” Otter scoffed. “Launch lunch. Blow foam. Yawn chunks. Clean house. Thunder chunder. Toss a tiger. Flash your hash. Mark the mud. Laugh at the lawn. Park the pea soup. Growl at the gravel. Lob some liquid hand grenades. Sing the ballad of the grog.” Pointing at Snackwell, he added, “I
know
that you know what I’m talking about, big boy.”

Snackwell stammered, “I … I … I think it might not be a good idea to go down that road. Because … because … because once I start down that road, there’s no telling when I’ll stop.”

Otter beamed, “Broheim, you sound like a natural boot-meister.” Then he raised his head to the sky and made a remarkably loud gagging noise, after which all the Swatch pledges came running. “Yes, Broheim Otter,” they said in unison.

“Fellow pledges, meet Snackwell Fartly. You can call him Snack.”

“No, you can’t,” Snack protested.

“Yes, we can,” Otter disputed. “Broheim Snack is apparently one of the finest booters in all of Easterrabbit, and he’s going to give us a demonstration.”

“No, I’m not,” Snack protested.

“Yes, you are,” Otter disputed.

Juan said, “Just get it over with, Snack. If you want to be one of them, you’ll have to do it eventually.”