A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (17 page)

As Head was speechless, Tinyjohnson asked, “Do you know who it was?”

“Nah, but he looked like the kind of dude who’d totally bone his twin sister.”

“Well,” Head told Tinyjohnson as they left the shop ostensibly to search for the culprit, “that narrows it down to only half the population of Easterrabbit.”

Five days after an attack on her traveling party that we felt wasn’t worth mentioning—because how many attacks does one book need, really?—Lady Gateway Bully Barker was still in shock, so much so that she still had not said a multi-worded sentence to Tinyjohnson or the sole oddly named Knight who had survived the battle, Sur Crayola Burntsienna. But Burntsienna was a gregarious, persistent traveling partner who insisted on reliving the incident again and again and again.

“They took them all in one fell swoop, m’Lady,” he panted for the bazillionth time, “
One fell swoop!
Sur Porkburger put up valiant fight, he did, as did Sur Fannyass, but even with Sur Slobberknocker and Sur Jablome at their sides, they could not withstand the waves and waves of little gray men and those shiny weapons of theirs.”

“Grunt,” Gateway grunted.

Burntsienna continued, “And when they took Sur Dyggler, Sur McChucklehead, and Sur Motorboat into that … that … that … what did you call it?”

“Airship,” Gateway grunted.

“Right, right, right, that
airship,
well, that was a sight to behold. It was almost as if my fellow Knights had lost their free will, almost as if they were floating above the ground. I believe if I hadn’t been hiding behind a tree, I’d be up there with them right now.”

“Grunt,” Gateway grunted.

“And when the airship left the ground, it made that funny noise.” Burntsienna attempted to replicate said funny noise—his version of it sounded like
blibliblibliblib,
when in reality, the airship sounded like
blublublublublub
—then he came to a sudden halt. Wiping his eye, he asked Gateway, “M’Lady, did you feel that?”

“What?” Gateway grunted.

Burntsienna opined, “I believe a drop of rain has fallen into my eye.”

Tinyjohnson agreed, “I believe one has fallen on my testicles. Because I
do
have testicles, you know.”

Gateway turned her head to the sky, and sure enough, a dropling of sun-dappled water dropling’d onto her nose. She whispered with wonder, “Summer is here.”

Burntsienna agreed with equal wonder, “Summer is here.”

“Summer is here,” Gateway repeated.

“Summer is here,” Burntsienna repeated.

“Summer is here.”

“Summer is here.”

“Summer is here.”

“Summer is here.”

Their mantra continued for twenty-odd minutes. Burntsienna paused, looked around, and said, wonderingly, “Speaking of seasons, doesn’t it seem odd to you that, despite the length of our cold and hot spells, our flora and fauna seem more suited to thrive in a temperate climate? Not that I’m criticizing whichever of our Gods created this place or anything. I mean, I know there are a lot of things to think about when creating an entire world, like the variations on traditional spelling of names, places, and animals. But you’d think that the Gods would have taken the effect of long Summers and Winters on the plants into a little more consideration. Priorities, and all that.”

The sunshower began in semi-earnest. At once bored and not bored, Lady Gateway brushed ten drops from her eyebrows and noted, “This is no weather to be traveling in.” She pointed straight forward and said, “Look, Burntsienna! A motel! And in the middle of the forest, yet.” She sighed contentedly, then mused, “It’s almost as if it appeared out of nowhere.”

After two knocks on the motel’s front entrance, the door was opened by a slender woman with long blond hair and a beatific smile. “Do you have a reservation?” she asked.

“How would we make a reservation?” Gateway responded. “We didn’t even know you existed until two minutes ago. It’s almost as if you appeared out of nowhere.”

The woman poked her head farther out the door, looked around as if to make certain nobody was listening, then whispered, “We did. Don’t ask questions.” Then, in a normal tone, she offered Gateway her hand and said, “Marsha Braedy, proprietor of the Renyssance Inn. Please come in.”

The lobby was warm and welcoming, decorated in warm and welcoming colors, the kind of colors that made the Renyssance Inn feel warm and welcoming. A young man sat in front of the fire, strumming a guitar, and warbling a tune:

I hope I could offer Sister Roberta her mild thrill

Then I’d stick Roberta in a cage at the top of a hill

Then ride to the onion patch in my Cadillac Coupe de Ville

Roberta could eat onions and take a crazy pill

Gateway thought that the song’s lyrics, while semi-interesting, were nonsensical to the point of annoyance, but the most off-putting aspect of the troubadour’s performance was his voice. It was a gravelly voice, a whiny voice, an out-of-tune voice, a voice that, had it not been attached to semi-interesting lyrics, would have been dismissed altogether.

Upon seeing the inn’s new guests, the troubadour stopped singing and said, “Ah, wonderful, an audience!” He gently placed his guitar on the floor, stood, and added, “Permit me to introduce myself.” Offering his hand to Gateway, he said, “Bobdillon.”

She accepted his hand offer and said, “Lady Gateway Barker.”

Smiling, he went down on one knee and said, “M’Lady, it is an honor to meet you. Did you enjoy my music?”

Gateway shrugged and said, “Meh.”

“Would you prefer another song? I’ve written approximately four hundred fifty-eight of them.”

“Thank you, but I’m quite exhausted, and…”

Bobdillon snatched up his guitar, cried, “One, two, three, four!” and then launched into the following:

Looks like they’ll onion me when I’m trottin’ down the street

They’ll probably onion me when I’m tryin’ to stay on my feet

They might also onion me when I’m hoppin’ on the ceiling

They’ll onion me when I’m boppin’ and free wheelin’

But I could not be so by myself, because I have ten bunions

That’ll probably get worse unless my woman gets me ten onions

After fifty-one more verses without a chorus, Bobdillon grinned and asked, “Was that one more to your liking, m’Lady?”

Gateway shrugged and said, “Meh.”

Bobdillon reached into the hole of his guitar, pulled out a palm-sized bag and some small rectangular papers, then queried, “Would this be more to your liking, m’Lady?”

Smiling, Gateway exclaimed, “Princess on the steeple, and all the pretty people!” And then Gateway, Bobdillon, Burntsienna, Tinyjohnson, and Marsha Braedy proceeded to get baked.

Some period of time later—and it is impossible to discern the exact amount of time that passed, because Bobdillon’s Godsweede was, as he put it, “bomb chronic” that made the hours evaporate—there was a knock at the front door. Marsha Braedy yelled, “Go away! No vacancy!” At which her smoking partners laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Give me a break, Shecky, there ain’t a single horse in the parking lot, and this is a one-horse town. This place is such a dump that it makes Duskendale look like Maidenpool.”

At that, Gateway
et al.
laughed, and laughed, and laughed, then Marsha Braedy said, “Ah, great stuff, stranger. I think we can squeeze you in.” When she opened the door, she found herself face-to-belt with a gawky giant.

“Good afternoon, my good Lady,” the giant said. “Tritone Sinister: If you give up the bucks, I’ll give up the fu … Oh. Lady Gateway. Surprise, surprise. Of all the gin joints, eh?”

After trying and failing to stand up, Gateway giggled, “Tritone. Fly-tone. High-tone. My moan. Tie groan. I’m blown.” She patted her tummy, then asked, “Yo, Pie-phone, you got any Cool Ranch Doritos on you? Or maybe a ham and cheese Hot Pocket?”

“Sorry, Gateway, I left my junk food in my other burlap suit. How’s tricks?”

“Tricks are good,” she said, then scratched her head and noted, “Hold on, I’m supposed to be mad at you for something.”

“Who,
me
? Nobody gets mad at me. I’m the one Sinister people like.” Puffing up his chest, he claimed, “Some even say I’m the best character in both the book
and
the first season of the show. So suck on
that
, Sean Bean.”

After finally staggering to her feet, Gateway said, “Well, I’m supposed to be mad at you, so I’m totally taking you prisoner.”

Tritone shrugged. “If it gets things moving along, that works for me.” He then clapped his hands once, made a trio of impressive armpit farts, and said, “You got any grub around this dump? I’m so hungry, I could eat Sasha Barker’s direpanda.”

“Oh. My. Gods. There’re, like, so many people here. It’s, like, oh, my, Gods.”

“Well put, Sasha.” Sistyr Glynda Roesy Raegan Melvyn smiled. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Totally,” Sasha Barker agreed. “Like, how many people are there, do you think?”

“
Everybody
is here, Sasha. Remember, your father’s decree: ‘If you miss the Woodstok Festyval of Frolicking, Fryvolity, and Fyghting, you shall die. And do not ingest the brown acid.’”

“Totally,” Sasha Barker agreed. Pointing to a section of well-dressed men and women sitting in the first three rows, she asked, “Like, who’re those people?”

Sistyr G.R.R.M. explained, “Why, Capaetal Ceity’s hoi polloi, of course. That’s Lord Analwarts Candlestick and his wife, Lady Ringworm. And that’s Lord Worthington Smithington Knockknock and his wife, Lady Abscess. And that’s Lord Afrocentric Schadenfreude and his wife, Lady Hakunamatata. And that’s Lord Showtyme Scissorlegs and his wife, Lady Genericbrand. And that’s Lord Sherlock Hemlock Hoofnmouth and his wife, Lady Pinocchio Pistachio. And that’s Lord Billybeen Rocknjock and his wife, Lady Antybellym. And finally, that’s Lord Nosepicker Wallamaloo and his wife, Lady Bellyflop.”

Sasha then pointed to a pair of multi-armed men standing on the edge of the battlefield, far away from the dozens of Knights doing downward dogs in the center of the ring. “Who’re those guys? They’re, like, totally grotty to the max.”

Sistyr Melvyn sneered, “Those are the Leghorn brothers. Sandstorm is the one with three arms. Grandstand has four.”

Sasha squealed,
“Ewwwwwwwww!”

The Knights soon dispersed, after which a fat man with a fatter beard strolled out to the center of the ring and lifted his arms in the air. “Good afternoon, Cap Ceity!” he yelled. “I’m Wavimus Gravimus, and welcome to the Festyval of Frolicking, Fryvolity, and Fyghting. What we have in mind today is onions in bed for four hundred thousand!”

Somebody from the crowd roared, “Screw these obscure Woodstok references, chunky-style! Let’s see some blood!”

Unfazed, Wavimus Gravimus asked, “You want some blood?!”

As one, the audience roared, “Gods, yes!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Gods, yes!”

“Scream so they can hear you in Summerseve!”

“GODS, YES!”

“That’s what I’m
talkin’
about!” Wavimus Gravimus grinned. “Alrighty then, our first event is a battle royale. The rules are simple: there are no rules, and the last man standing wins.” He pointed at the two dozen Knights standing off to the side and said, “Gentlemen, start your engines.”

The weaker participants were either mortally wounded or knocked unconscious within seconds, their blood covering the muddy field of battle. Five minutes after the battle started, there were eight men left standing: the Leghorn brothers and six men whose names and physical descriptions are not the least bit important.

Sandstorm and Grandstand stood on one side of the field, and the other six on the other. The Leghorns gave each other the briefest of looks, after which Sandstorm pulled a tiny twig from his glove and slowly advanced on the nameless Knights. All six of them chortled, chuckled, and guffawed, but before they could further titter, snicker, or snigger, Sandstorm stabbed two of them in their respective left eyes, stabs that were so firm and true that both men died instantly.

As Sandstorm backed away from the remaining four Knights, Grandstand advanced, brandishing a somewhat bigger twig. Realizing that the Leghorns knew their way around sticks, the four Knights brandished their own weapons, gigantic swords that were each the size of three men standing on top of one another while standing on stilts. Grandstand rolled his eyes at the oversized swords, then sidestepped each of the blades, and waved his stick around and around and around. One minute later, all four Knights were taking permanent mud naps.

Grandstand ran to the middle of the ring, then cried, “Fight’s over, people! It’s a tie! Leghorns rule! Deal with it!” after which the brothers ran out of the stadium to a chorus of boos. Before they left the arena, they turned around and gave the audience the septuple bird, and went on their merry way.

Sasha turned to Sistyr G.R.R.M. and said with awe, “Oh. My. Gods. That was, like,
radical
.”

“Well put, Sasha. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Just then, Sasha felt a tap on her shoulder: Goofrey Barfonme. Goof cocked an eyebrow, gave Sasha an up-and-down look, and leered, “Hey, baby. You look fine today, just fine. You could kill somebody on that rack, if you know what I mean.”

“Like, I don’t know what that means.” Turning to the Sistyr, Sasha asked, “What does that mean?”

Sistyr G.R.R.M. mumbled, “It means young Goofrey has been taking how-to-pick-up-girls lessons from his Uncle Jagweed.”

“Totally awesome!” Sasha exclaimed, then she stood up, took Goof’s elbow, kissed him on the cheek, and purred, “Let’s, like, totally get out of here and totally make out.”

Blushing, Goof stuttered, “I, er, I, er, I, er…”

“We should totally, like, go back to the castle and, like, hang out in your bedroom,” Sasha said. “Malia totally told me about penises and vaginas and stuff.”