A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (16 page)

Snack stammered, “My … my … my stomach is empty, because I, um, what do you call it, hooted…”

“Booted,” Pinto corrected.

“Right. I booted on my way over.” Patting his stomach, he added, “Nothing there.”

“Not for long,” D-Day grinned, then tossed Snack an enormous box of grog. “Polish off half of that, and you’ll be booting until Summer.”

Snack sighed, “I don’t like grog.”

“Great,” Flounder said, “you’ll boot that much faster.”

Naturally, Otter then began a chant, which the Frat boys immediately picked up:
“Drink! Boot! Drink! Boot! Drink! Boot!”

Finally, Snack succumbed. “Okay,” he said, “over the lips and past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes.” In one endless guzzle, he dumped the entire box of grog down his gullet. The Swatchmen gasped in amazement—even Juan was impressed—and were, for a change, speechless.

Eventually, Otter whispered with awe, “That was genius, Snack. I can’t wait to see the boot. Now let it go. You know you want to.”

His forehead dotted with sweat, Snack gurgled, “I
do
want to.” Then he took a deep breath, then another, then another, then leaned back as far as he possibly could—which, truth be told, was not that far—opened his mouth, and delivered a belch that uprooted three trees and knocked Otter
et al.
onto their backsides.

Otter sat up and felt the front of his shirt. “It’s dry,” he said. “Where’s the boot?”

Snack stared at his shoes, clearly embarrassed. “I can’t boot,” he admitted. “Never have, and probably never will.”

Otter said, “Well you clearly don’t have what it takes to be a Swatchman. I recommend you leave the area immediately. If you don’t, you shall suffer dire consequences.” And then Otter
et al.
stomped away.

Watching them go, Snack asked Juan, “What do they mean by dire consequences?” He paused, then said, “Wait, let me guess: they’ll boot on me.”

“
Sí
. They’ll boot on you.”

Snack hung his head, then whispered, “The fellowship I was seeking is not here.” He glanced at the Wall and said, “Maybe the Others will have me.”

“No, we won’t! And we’re not the Others! We’re the Awesomes, asshole!”

“Well, that answers that question,” Snack sighed. “I shall be on my way.”

He took two steps, then, out of nowhere, Broheim Cooke appeared. “Where’re you going, fatass?”

“Away,” Snack groaned.

“Nah, hang around. I think you might provide some comic relief down the line.” To Juan, he said, “Listen, jerkoff, your pal Sinjean Barker has disappeared.”

“Gosh,” Juan mused, “I haven’t thought about him in, what, ten chapters, maybe fifteen. Any idea where he might be?”

From behind a tree, they heard an
Ahem
.

“What was that?” Cooke asked.

Juan and Snack both shrugged, then heard again, except louder:
“Ahem!”

“What the hell was that?” Cooke asked again, and again, Juan and Snack shrugged.

The
ahem
turned into a cough … a cough that sounded remarkably like the cougher, rather than coughing
“Hack, hack, hack,”
was saying
“Sin, Sin, Sin.”

Snack turned to Juan and asked, “Does it sound to you like he’s saying
‘Sin
,
Sin
,
Sin’
rather than
‘Hack
,
hack
,
hack’
?”

“No,” Cooke disagreed, “it definitely doesn’t.”

“Yes,” the cougher cried, “it definitely does.” And then, from behind the tree, out emerged Sinjean Barker.

Juan’s face broke into a goofy grin. “Uncle Sin, for the last twenty-six seconds, I thought you were gone, and those were the worst twenty-six seconds of my life!”

Sinjean asked, “Do you want to know the worst twenty-six seconds of my life, jerkoff?”

“Not really,” Juan said.

Ignoring Juan, Sin said, “It was Sixty-eight. I was in Da Nang, ass-deep in a stinking rice paddy, Charlie to the left, Charlie to the right, Charlie in front, Charlie in back. My buddy Horse had caught some shrapnel in his gut, and that magnificent bastard was bleeding out at my feet. As he told me to tell Lucy and the girls that he loved them, it hit me: if Horse could bite it, I could bite it. I mean, I was out of ammo, out of acid, out of water, and just about out of time, and for twenty-six seconds, I was certain that I was dead, certain that House Barker would have to go on without the Sin Man. But then the choppers came, and they took me right to Summerseve.” He paused, then said, “I’m not ashamed to say I kissed the mud when I landed.”

From over the Wall, somebody yelled,
“It’s not nice to refer to the Viet Cong as Charlie, asshole!”
And then Sinjean Barker was vaporized by an AGM-87 Focus guided missile.

Juan, Cooke, and Snack stared somberly at the pile of ash that was once Sinjean Barker. Finally, Cooke said, “No offense, jerkoff, but I am not going to miss that big psycho. Not one bit.”

Under his breath, Juan whispered, “Me neither,” then he clapped Snackwell Fartly on the shoulder and said, “Come on,
culo enorme,
⁴³
I’m not sending you out into the world all by yourself, Broheim-less. Let’s teach you how to boot.”

Snack gave Juan a grateful grin and whispered reverently, “Nothing would make me happier, you gigantic jerkoff. Nothing at all.”

According to the Encyclopedya Easterrabbitica, House Barfonme was the second worst House in terms of illiteracy—just behind House Targetpractice, naturally—in part because Capaetal Ceity’s schools were only open during the Summer—which never came—and in part because the town’s lone bookstore was located at the foot of an active volcano, in a mall that also housed the area’s only apothecary.

As Lord Headcase Barker trudged to said store, he read, and reread, and reread Lady Gateway Bully Barker’s ravengram:

I know you’re all wrapped up in your lame-brained festyval, but don’t forget that Tritone Sinister tried to kill our kid, and you need to find out why. Hugs, Gateway.

P.S. I decided not to become a prostitute.

P.P.S. You have to keep watching the girls by yourself, because I’m not coming back to Capaetal Ceity, but rather going to visit my sister for reasons that are not quite clear yet. Make sure Malia eats her veggies.

P.P.P.S. Your little friend Tinyjohnson is traveling with me. I think he’s a eunuch.

P.P.P.P.S. Think of me when you touch yourself.

Head wanted nothing more than to think of his wife when he touched himself, but in the little time for self-touching, he could not concentrate. His brain kept going to the Sinister situation, because when it came to why House Sinister was at battle with House Barker, there were dozens of plot holes, and it was driving him to distraction. In true Head-like fashion, he decided to do some research, so he could fill those blanks right on in, thus the trip to the bookshop.

The floor of Baredor’s Books was coated with a thin layer of volcanic ash, but Head thought that just added to the shop’s charm. When Head sauntered up to the counter, the shop’s proprietor, Blubbernerd Millipede, fell to his knees and, through a haze of ash, said, “My Lord, the King’s Foot, how may this humble bookseller aid you on this fine day?”

“First,” Head said, fanning the ash from his face, “I command you to stand up.” After Millipede rose, Head continued, “Second, I need a history book.”

“What kind of history book?”

Shrugging, Head admitted, “No idea. What happened in Easterrabbit’s past is a bit confusing. I mean, the years aren’t logically numbered, the Summers and Winters come and go with no rhyme or reason, and the maps of this place make zero sense. But I’ll worry about that later; my main goal right now is to find out why all the Houses hate each other so Godsdamn much.”

Millipede raised his index finger, claimed, “I have just the thing,” then skittered off to the stacks. A couple of minutes later, he returned with an oversized book, which he handed to Head, then said, “This might be just what you’re looking for.”

Head peered at the cover:
The Lineages and Histories and Stories and Secrets of the Lots and Lots of Kingdoms, with Caricatures and Distorted Renderings of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children and Their Pets and Their Slaves and Their Silverware and Their Horses and Their Sigils and Their Breakfasts and Their Lunches and Their Dinners and Their Onions
by Grand Maester Baeter.

After giving the two-thousand-plus-page book a quick thumb-through, Head said, “I don’t know, Blubbernerd, it looks interesting, but I don’t think it’s the one.”

“I understand, my Footship. I believe I have the perfect title,” he claimed, then again skittered off. A couple of minutes later, he returned with an even more oversized book, which he handed to Head, then said, “I believe this will be more to your liking.”

Head peered at the cover:
The Chronicles and Records and Sagas of the World as We Know It and the Individuals and Figures and Peoples Who Created the Infrastructures and the Organizations and the Societies and the Unions That Will Be Endured and Enjoyed by Each and Every Sentient Man and Woman and Child and Dragon Throughout the Land and the Terra Firma and the Soil and the Terrain and the Historical Histories That Emerged from the Meetings and the Gatherings and the Assemblies That Led to the Creation of the Infrastructures and the Organizations and the Societies
by Grand Maester Broocelee.

“I’m not sure, Blubbernerd.” Head shrugged after giving the 3,000-plus-page book a fast peek. “This might be a little too broad.”

“Ah, you want something specific. I understand, my Footship. I believe I have the perfect title.” A couple of minutes later, he returned with a miniature book—a pamphlet, really—which he handed to Head, then said, “I believe
this
will be more to your liking.”

Head peered at the cover:
Why All the Houses Hate Each Other So Godsdamn Much
by Grand Maester Flaysh.

“Perfect!” Head exclaimed. “I’ll take it!”

On the walk back home, Head read the book from cover to cover, and it clarified exactly nothing. The thought of reading either
The Lineages and Histories and Stories and Secrets of the Lots and Lots of Kingdoms, with Caricatures and Distorted Renderings of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children and Their Pets and Their Slaves and Their Silverware and Their Horses and Their Sigils and Their Breakfasts and Their Lunches and Their Dinners and Their Onions
or
The Chronicles and Records and Sagas of the World as We Know It and the Individuals and Figures and Peoples Who Created the Infrastructures and the Organizations and the Societies and the Unions That Will Be Endured and Enjoyed by Each and Every Sentient Man and Woman and Child and Dragon Throughout the Land and the Terra Firma and the Soil and the Terrain and the Historical Histories That Emerged from the Meetings and the Gatherings and the Assemblies That Led to the Creation of the Infrastructures and the Organizations and the Societies
from cover to cover made him queasy—who in their right minds would want to read over five thousand pages about Easterrabbit?—so he figured he would go back to work and let the Barker/Sinister thing play itself out on its own.

Back at the castle, Tinyjohnson was awaiting Head at the front door. Grabbing Head’s elbow, the non-eunuch breathed, “Come quick, Foot. I have pressing news.”

“You
always
have pressing news, Tinyjohnson.”

“Indeed. We have an appointment.”

“Where? With who?”

“At the apothecary. With the apothecary.”

“I just came from there,” he kvetched. “You couldn’t have called me on my cell?”

Tinyjohnson explained, “There’s no reception by the volcano. And good luck getting a raven to go down there on short notice.”

“Why do we need to see the apothecary at the apothecary?”

“Apparently he has some news about Lord Functionary Aaron.”

“Functionary? Really? Just like that?”

“What do you mean,
just like that
?” Tinyjohnson asked.

“I mean, what’s with all these callbacks?”

“Callbacks?”

Head said, “Well, we hadn’t heard anything about Sin Barker in who-knows-how-long, then he shows up out of nowhere and gets blown up. And nobody’s said a word about Functionary Aaron in
forever,
and now we’re going to talk about him with the apothecary? What’s next? Are Airhead and Jarhead coming back?”

In the distance, Juan’s direpanda, Fourshadow, roared.

The apothecary was named Warblethroat Millipede, Blubbernerd’s brother, and where Blubbernerd was subservient and modest, Warblethroat was flamboyant and pretentious. “Friends,” Warblethroat intoned when Head and Tinyjohnson entered his shop, “Barkers, Barfonmes, countrymen, lend me your ears, for I follow you to serve my turn upon you.”

“Thank you, Warblethroat,” Head thanked. “My short friend here tells me you have something to share with us.”

“That is correct, my Footship. Some cupids kill with arrows, and some with traps. Oft expectation fails, and most oft there is a happy dagger, and nothing can come of nothing.”

Lord Barker gave the kind apothecary a strange look and admitted, “You aren’t making sense, kind apothecary.”

“Apologies, my Footship. Let me clarify, for there is a method in the madness. All that glitters is not gold during the Summer of our discontent. A King of infinite space bids a long farewell to all my greatness. Oh, villain, villain, smiling damn villain!”

“Still lost,” Head admitted.

“Apologies, my Footship. Let me
further
clarify: The man that hath a tongue I say is no man. Oh, what men dare do! Or remedies oft in ourselves do lie. So when shall we three meet again?”

“Listen,” Head explained, “the only reason we’re here is that we were led to believe you have some news of Lord Aaron.”

Warblethroat sniffled, then, with his voice down an octave, and his posh accent gone, he said, “Oh, yeah, right, that. Okay, so a few months back, some dude comes in and makes me make some poison that can make another dude laugh himself to death.”