A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (19 page)

From his odorous, burbling throne, King Bobbert Barfonme growled, “Both of you, stop this madness right now.
Nobody’s
murdering
anybody
. Except me.” Head and Tinyjohnson gawked at Bobbert, to which the King responded, “Oh, don’t give me that
Bobbert’s a drunken buffoon
look. I’m not going to murder her myself. One of those Leghorn freaks will do it for five or six…” He trailed off, then asked Head, “What do you call that monetary unit again?”

“Dollars.”

“Right. One of those idiots will do it for five or six dollars.”

Head queried, “And just who is this
she
you’re planning to have murdered?”

Bobbert leered and said, “That hot young piece of ass the Dorki is dorking.”

“Lolyta Targetpractice?” Head asked. “She’s never done anything to anybody. I mean, from what I’ve heard, she’s a little bit obsessed with those eggs of hers, but so what? Why her?”

Bobbert reached to a small box next to his throne and riffled through a pile of magazines until he came to a small book. He showed it to Head and Tinyjohnson, then asked, “Either of you ever read this?”

They peered at the cover:
Why All the Houses Hate Each Other So Godsdamn Much
by Grand Maester Flaysh. “As a matter of fact, I have,” Head stated. “And it clarified exactly nothing.”

“In general, you’re right,” the King agreed, “but on page six, it says that House Barfonme has hated House Targetpractice for five hundred fifteen seasons, so who am I to buck tradition?”

“Genius, Your Highness,” Lord Petey Varicose Bailbond grinned. “Killing Lolyta Targetpractice would be a brilliant political move. That will get you reelected for certain.”

“We’re a monarchy, Tinyjohnson,” Bobbert pointed out.

“I know, Your Highness, but if you
were
a democracy, you’d win by a landslide.”

“I appreciate that, Tinyjohnson, but as long as we…”

Head interrupted, “Are you two dummies listening to yourselves? You want to kill a girl just because your father’s father’s father’s father’s father’s father had some beef with her father’s father’s father’s father’s father’s father’s father? That’s ridiculous, Bobbert, even for you.”

Tinyjohnson nodded. “The Foot has a point, Your Highness. It might start a war, and I suspect within a few chapters, we are going to have a couple of other wars on our hands.”

Bobbert roared, “Headcase, remember, I’m the King, and what I say goes!”

“Ooh, that’s a compelling argument for killing Lolyta,” Tinyjohnson said. “
Very
compelling.”

“Bobbert,” Head noted, “Woodstok got us back on our financial feet, and we can start repaying Chyna…”

“Or not!”
Bobbert and Tinyjohnson cried in unison.

“Correct, or not. But a war will bleed us dry.”

“Good point,” Tinyjohnson said. “Bobbert, my advice would be to
not
murder Lolyta Targetpractice.”

“But it’ll be
fun,
” Bobbert whined.

“Good point,” Tinyjohnson said. “Bobbert, my advice would be to
definitely
murder Lolyta Targetpractice.”

Head noted, “The Dorki Army will come after you and your family with everything they’ve got.”

Bobbert asked, “Wait, let me get this straight: You’re saying that if I have Lolyta Targetpractice whacked, all those psycho horsepeople will try and whack both Cerevix and Goof?” He paused, then added, “As appealing as that may sound, I’m still moving ahead with my plan: Pulverize KERBANGER Lolyta and those Godsdamn eggs!”

“Brilliant idea, Your Highness,” Tinyjohnson said.

“You’re an idiot, Bobbert,” Head sighed. “A drunken, impulsive idiot.”

“He’s right, Your Highness,” Tinyjohnson said. “You
are
an idiot.”

“No,
you’re
the idiot!” Bobbert roared at the Foot.

To Head, Tinyjohnson asserted, “He’s right, Your Footness. You, too, are an idiot.”

Bobbert reached into his pocket and pulled out an onion. “
Allium cepa
in your grill, Foot!” And then he hurled the
allium cepa
at Head’s head.

As Head pulled onion spew from his beard, Tinyjohnson simpered, “Brilliant throw, Your Highness.”

Head glared silently at his old friend, then ran out of the throne room, returning a minute later with a bag of onions almost big enough to feed Snackwell Fartly. He unsheathed Slush, coolly picked the biggest onion from the bag, stuck it on the end of his blade, then flung the sword at King Bobbert’s midsection. It missed wide right and kept on going until it stuck in the wall.

“Brilliant throw, Your Footness,” Tinyjohnson professed.

Bobbert leapt off the throne, reached into the onion bag, pulled out as many as he could hold in both arms, then ran to the opposite side of the room. “Onions at fifty paces, Barky-Boy!” he cried, then tossed one of the vegetables at Headcase, missing by several feet.

“Brilliant throw, Your Highness.” Tinyjohnson grinned.

At once, Head and Bobbert roared,
“Shut up!”
They pelted the possible eunuch with ten onions each, knocking him unconscious.

The two old friends then stared silently at one another, panting and sweating, sweating and panting. Finally, King Bobbert broke the silence: “Maybe you should go back to Summerseve.”

Shrugging his head coyly, shuffling his feet, and avoiding eye contact with Bobbert, he said, “Maybe I should.”

“Okay, then,” Bobbert answered. “Then go.”

“Fine. I’ll go.” He was motionless.

“Fine. Go.”

“Fine. I’ll go.” He remained motionless.

“Good. I’ll be glad when you’re gone.”

“Yeah, me too. So I’m going.” Still he remained motionless.

“Then go.”

“Fine. I’ll go.”

“Good. Go.”

“I’m going.”

“Great. So go.”

By the time this back-and-forth banter wound up some four hours later, they both forgot what they were angry about … but that did not stop Lord Headcase Barker from resigning his Footship, packing his bags, and preparing for a journey back to Summerseve.

KERBANGER Lolyta Targetpractice was perched on her bejeweled throne, Magistrate Illinois on her left and Vladymyr Targetpractice on her right. Loly squirmed uncomfortably because the entire throne was bejeweled, seat included, and her buttocks were exceptionally sensitive from last night’s paddling session with Ivan Drago. (After initially being nervous about the act of making love with each other, Loly and Ivan Drago had become quite open and comfortable with each other and, despite the language barrier, had managed to make each other aware of their respective needs and desires. It turned out that Ivan Drago liked paddling, and Loly liked being paddled. It was as if they were a match made by the Gods, a salacious match that would translate well to both the page and the small screen.)

Standing beside the throne, Vladymyr glared at Loly and complained, “I haven’t seen much of you. Seems like you’ve been awfully wrapped up in your work.”

“That’s KERBANGER to you, subject,” she said. “And KERBANGING is a busy profession. As much as I enjoy them, I don’t have time for your feeble nipple tweaks and bitchy tirades.”

He glared at her, then whispered menacingly, “You know, if you keep speaking to me in this manner, you shall wake the ducks. And trust me, you do
not
want to wake the ducks, because if you wake the ducks—”

Loly interrupted, “Again with waking the ducks. On the page: waking the ducks. On the small screen: waking the ducks. Listen, brother dear, you can try as hard as you want, but you’re not going to inject any catchphrases into this whole mess. It isn’t that kind of project. Besides, we’re on premium cable, and catchphrases are totally CBS.”

“If you wake the ducks,” he repeated, “all hell will break loose. If you wake the ducks, KERBANGER, the sun will fall from the sky, and the moon will explode into a million bits. If you wake the ducks, KERBANGER, the mud will turn to diamonds, and diamonds will turn to mud. If you wake the ducks, KERBANGER, the…”

“Hey, Vladymyr.”

“Yes?”

“Kneel when you’re in the presence of your KERBANGER.”

Vladymyr glared at Loly, then gritted, “First of all, I’m your older brother, and I will not kneel before you. And second of all, these are new pants, and since all the floors in this castle are filthy, my knees never touch the ground.”

Magistrate Illinois mumbled, “That’s not what I heard.”

“I heard that,” Vladymyr said.

“You were meant to,” Illinois noted. At that, Illinois and Loly tittered. At that, Vladymyr stomped his foot, grunted something that sounded like “Uch,” then minced out of the room.

After he was out of earshot, Illinois intoned, “Would you like an update on the Dorki political situation, my KERBANGER?”

“Not really.” Loly frowned.

Ignoring her, Illinois took a Word document from her pocket and reported, “Ivan J’Marcus is twelve points ahead of Ivan Derek in the polls for District Four. It behooves us that Ivan J’Marcus emerge victorious, because he’s running on the platform of ‘Ooga booga boo boo boo,’ whereas Ivan Derek’s ‘Inga binga bing bing bing’ approach will have dire consequences for us.”

With a blank look, Loly asked Illinois, “Um, what?”

Illinois continued, “Things are a bit more heated in District Ten, where Ivan Margaret is neck and neck with Ivan Steve. That could be a problem because Dork is simply not ready for a female representative. We’re trying to dig up some dirt on Ivan Margaret. No luck so far, but we haven’t exhausted our resources. I’ll spare you the details for reasons of plausible deniability.”

Aside from the fact that she was both clueless and apathetic about the upcoming elections, Loly was unable to focus on Illinois’s rundown because she could not stop dreaming of Ivan Drago, his magnificent human chest, and his even more magnificent horse junk. Last night’s paddling was the culmination of a week of experimenting that left Loly at once sated and hungry. Just as Illinois was about to explain why Ivan Francois was going to triumph in his battle with Ivan Gerard, the KERBANGER asked, “Illinois, do you know where Ivan Drago is?”

“Don’t you want to hear the rest of the polling?”

“Gods no. This KERBANGER wants a piece of her man, and what this KERBANGER wants, this KERBANGER gets.”

Magistrate Illinois muttered, “Power tripper.”

“I heard that,” Loly said.

“You were meant to,” Illinois noted. “Anyhow, last I heard, your man was in the center of town.”

Loly stood up, reached under her skirt, pulled off her panties, handed them to Illinois, and noted, “You know what to do with these, Magistrate.”

Wrinkling her nose, Illinois took Loly’s unmentionables between her thumb and forefinger, holding them away from her nose as if they were a snake coiling then uncoiling, then stomped away without a word.

Ivan Drago was indeed in the center of town, lying on his side, slathering himself with Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Sunblock SPF 94,167,211,467, whinnying contentedly. Loly slinked over to him and said, “You need any help with that, big boy?”

Smiling, Ivan Drago gave his bride a onceover, then neighed, “Wowzie wowzie woo woo woo!”

“That’s what I thought,” Loly purred, grabbing his equine tumescence.

While she tugged at his fifth leg, Ivan Drago moaned, “Ooga booga use both hands, and try some lubrication.”

As that was the most coherent sentence she had heard come from Ivan Drago’s lips, Loly stopped, and asked, “Wait, what did you say?”

Ivan Drago coughed. “Um, crap, I mean rippedy zip, zippedy rip. Oonga. Mmmmmm.”

“Oh,” Loly said, then continued her tugging. As Ivan Drago’s breath quickened, a crowd formed around the couple, which, as she was more aroused than she had been in all of her thirteen years, she barely noticed. However, when the audience launched into a chant of what sounded like
Faster, faster, faster,
she paused … but, undaunted, continued mere seconds later, going faster, faster, faster.

Ivan Drago took Loly’s hands from his member, tenderly removed her clothes, and mounted her. After a while, their screams grew in volume, eventually mingling with those of the crowd. When the couple reached their climaxes, their cries could be heard in the hills, and the viewers’ applause could be heard in the mountains.

After they disentangled from each other, the crowd dispersed; Ivan Drago galloped over to a nearby water trough, and Loly wobbled back to the castle, her body happily sore inside and out.

Vladymyr was waiting for Loly at the front door. Glaring at his sister, he sneered, “Just got an interesting ravengram, sister dear. Apparently you and Ivan Drago had yourselves a nice little pants-free party in the center of town. Real classy, sis. You’re sure doing the Targetpractice name proud.”

“Hey, that’s the way it’s done around here.” She smiled. “And when in Dork, do as the Dorkis. Besides, what happens in Dork stays in Dork.”

“Does he pinch your nipples like I do?” Vladymyr griped.

Loly patted her brother’s right cheek and said, “Nobody pinches my nipples like you do, darling. Thank Gods.”

He flicked her hand away and claimed, “Nobody pinches underage nipple as well as I do,
nobody
! I’m more masculine than Ivan Drago will ever be!”

Patting his other cheek, Loly soothed, “Of course you are, Vladymyr. Of course you are. He’s only half the man you are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit on my eggs for a while. I think they might be ready to hatch.”

Off in the distance, Juan Nieve’s direpanda, Fourshadow, could be heard growling.

When they were mere minutes away from House Aaron, Lady Gateway Barker peered at Tinyjohnson and said, “I thought you were in Cap Ceity.”

“I am,” Tinyjohnson said.

“You are? But you’re here,” Gateway pointed out.

“I mean, I
was
there. But I’m now here. I’m most definitely not there. Obviously.”

“Sometimes,” Gateway mused, “it’s almost like you’re two characters combined into one.”

Tinyjohnson scoffed, “That’s ridiculous.”

“It seems like you’re in two places at once.”