A Game of Groans: A Sonnet of Slush and Soot (20 page)

“No way.”

“You’re supposed to be advising the King, and yet you’re here with me.”

“I’m not. I’m not there, I mean. I mean, I’m not there now. Now this line of questioning ends, because we have arrived at our destination …
finally
.”

Two steps onto the grounds of the castle, Gateway crashed into a man clad in a one-piece blue burlap jumpsuit. “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked as he pulled himself up from the ground and tried to wipe the mud from his backside.

“Lady Gateway Bully Barker here to see Lady Lysergic Bully Aaron.”

The guard gave Gateway a snooty onceover, then said, “Strip.”

“Excuse me?”

“All of you, strip.”

At that, Tinyjohnson put his hands over his crotch and sprinted away, screaming,
“I am not a eunuch! I am not a eunuch! I am not a eunuch!”

Ignoring Tinyjohnson’s sudden exit, Gateway asked the burlap-wearer, “Why? I’ve been here dozens of times, and not once have I been asked to remove my clothes.”

“We’re tightening up security,” the guard said. “We need to make sure you’re not armed.”

Pointing at her sword, Gateway pointed out, “We’re
all
armed.”

“I don’t mean armed with weapons, ma’am. I mean armed with liquids.”

“Um, what?”

“If combined in a certain manner, liquids can be deadly, even water. Our security partners conducted extensive explosives testing last summer and determined that liquids, aerosols, and gels, in limited quantities, are safe to bring into the castle, the key phrase being
limited quantities
. You may fill either a three-ounce bottle, or one quart-sized clear plastic zip-top bag. Medications, baby formula and food, and breast milk are allowed in reasonable quantities, and are not required to be in the zip-top bag. Officers may need to open these items to conduct additional screening. Now strip, please.”

After a moment or two of silence, Bobdillon asked, “What’s plastic?” after which the guard pulled out a knife and slit the troubadour’s throat. Immediately, Gateway, Tritone Sinister, and Crayola Burntsienna tore off their respective clothes.

The guard picked up a handful of leaves from the muddy ground, wrapped them around his hand, then told Gateway et al., “Okay, kiddies, bend over and spread ’em.”

He stuck his right index finger up Burntsienna’s rectum, and his left index finger up Tritone’s. When Burntsienna yelped, Tritone told the guard, “I think he’s honked off that you didn’t buy him dinner first.”

The guard sneered, “Both of you are clean. Get dressed and proceed.” To Gateway, he murmured, “Let’s see what you’ve got hiding up there, sister.” He poked his index finger in up to the first joint, then the second, then the third. Right before he was about to attempt a fist, he grinned, said, “Jackpot,” then yanked out a small bag of Godsweede. “Busted! Confiscated! Get dressed and proceed.”

“But Godsweede isn’t illegal,” Gateway remarked.

“No, it isn’t, but it’s
really
hard to get any good stuff around here. The Vailcolorado soil is a disaster, and every single plant we grow comes out all skunky.” He opened the bag and took a whiff, then winced. “Godsdamn it, Lady Gateway, how long has this thing been up your backside?”

She scratched her head, then guessed, “Two years. Maybe three.”

He dropped the back of weede onto the ground and used his foot to cover it with mud. “Proceed to the throne room. Lady Lysergic is expecting you.”

As they walked toward the castle, Gateway grumbled, “That was still smokable, jerkoff.”

The House Aaron throne room was enormous, even bigger than the Barfonmes’. When Gateway, Tritone, and Burntsienna entered, Lysergic ran to her sister, arms spread. During a long, strong hug, Lysergic said, “Gateway, Gateway, Gateway, you look smashing!”

“You too, big sister,” Gateway said. “Again, my condolences for Functionary. I can’t imagine your pain. He was the only person in Easterrabbit who could hit a curveball.”

“Curveball?”

“Remember, we had to take out all those awesome baseball jokes based on Fuctionary’s last name?”

“Right, right, right. Forgot about that. Losing those jokes was almost as painful as losing my husband.” She paused, then added, “I received your ravengram. It was quite touching, and for that, I thank you.” She pulled herself from her sister’s embrace. “But I should point out that Cerevix Barfonme sent flowers. And we don’t even like each other.”

Gateway stated, “Don’t you think a ravengram is more personal? I actually took the time to sit down and write something. Anybody can go to a florist.”

“A ravengram is free, sister dear,” Lysergic declared. “Flowers aren’t. And let’s face it; you spend your money on … other things.”

“What are you saying?” Gateway asked.

Lysergic’s face turned pink, then red, then crimson.
“What I’m saying,”
she roared,
“is that you’re a Godsdamn weedehead who’d rather have sex without protection so she can spit out another kid, which gives her yet another excuse to not visit her sister and her nephew!”

“If your castle wasn’t located on the top of a mountain that’s on top of another mountain, maybe I’d come around more often! But it takes so Godsdamn long to get here that we had to consolidate the Godsdamn journey into a single Godsdamn paragraph!”

“Selfish bitch!”

“Elitist twat!”

“Arrogant wench!”

“Ugly snob!”

Before Lysergic could call Gateway a putrid whore, Gateway wrapped her hands around her sister’s neck and squeezed, immediately after which Lysergic wrapped
her
hands around
her
sister’s neck.

Tritone whispered to Burntsienna, “Jesus Chryst, these psycho hose beasts make my siblings look functional.”

A screech was heard from the other side of the throne room. Lysergic stepped down on Gateway’s foot, and, after Gateway let go of Lysergic’s neck, she called, “Honey, come say hi to your auntie!”

Clad in only a tiny codpiece, Lysergic’s son Little Lord Bobbby Aaron called, “You mean Auntie Shit Face?”

Lysergic shrugged, then said, “Kids. I have no idea where they pick up this stuff. I’m sure yours are the exact same way.”

“Not so much.” She kneeled down, held out her hands, and said, “Come to Auntie, Bobbby!”

Bobbby sauntered toward Gateway, but before he made it over to his aunt, he came to a stop in front of Tritone and whispered, “You’re so tall!”

“Oh yeah, Shecky? Well, you’re so short that you could walk under a snake while wearing a top hat.”

“Oh yeah? Well … well … well, how’s the weather up there?”

Tritone hocked a loogie on Bobbby’s head and said, “It’s raining.
Zzzzzzing!
”

Wiping the spittle from his head, Bobbby turned to Lysergic and asked, “Can we cut the giant into little, teeny, tiny pieces, then throw them off the mountain so we can watch them fly?”

Lysergic agreed, “I think that’s an excellent idea, son. Maybe we can do that to some other people, too.” Staring at Gateway, she asked, “Would you like to see your aunt fly, honey?”

Tinyjohnson offered to accompany Head back to Summerseve, but the ex-Foot was sick of the sight of the possible eunuch, so he traveled home all by himself. Before he took to the road, he ravengrammed Maester Blaester, telling him to send a posse to retrieve the girls, explaining that he needed some “me time,” and what better time for “me time” than a lengthy journey from one House to another?

When Head crossed the border out of Capaetal Ceity, he heard a cry from ahead: “Lord Barker, I request the honor of a battle!”

Head cried back, “Since when is a battle an honor?”

“You’re right! That was weird! It sounded better in my head! Let me try again: Lord Barker, you have wronged my family! Thanks to an anonymous ravengram, I have learned that Lady Barker is holding my brother prisoner for reasons that were not made clear, so to avenge Tritone’s incarceration, I request the pleasure of murdering you!” He paused, then added, “And yes, I know Tritone’s an idiot, but he’s family, so whatever.”

Head sighed, “Seriously?”

“Seriously. The Not-Kingslayer never jokes. I mean, look at me: I have a blond mane that looks great on the tube, and muscles on top of muscles, and a jawline that won’t stop. I get more mentions on blogs than any of the secondary characters, except for maybe that Vladymyr jerk, but whatever. Point is, I don’t
need
to joke.”

“Okay, Jagweed, show yourself.” On one hand, Head was irked that his “me time” was being usurped by a snot like Jagweed Sinister, but on the other, he knew he could beat the tar out of the incestuous fop without breaking a sweat.

Perched on top of a white stallion that Head thought was far too beautiful for the likes of a sister-screwing moron, Jagweed called, “Here I am, Lord Barker. Now hop off your steed and draw your steel. As I am a gentleman, you may have first thrust.”

Head called, “Isn’t that what you told Cerevix last night?”

His face reddening, Jagweed jumped off his horse and gritted, “That, Lord Barker, was your first thrust.”

Head dismounted, then reached for his sword and came up with nothing.
Godsdamn it,
he thought,
it’s still stuck in the wall of Bobbert’s throne room
. “Listen, Jagweed, I left my steel in my other burlap pants. I’d love to kill you in a painful, painful fashion, so can I take a rain check?”

“Request denied, Lord Barker. The battle has been declared. But as I am a gentleman, I will not engage in a battle in which the combatants do not have the same weapon.” He placed his sword on the muddy ground and asked, “Any ideas?”

Head looked around, then offered, “Sticks?”

Jagweed noted, “Nah. Too Tolkienesque.”

“Tree branches?”

“Too hard to reach.”

“Mud?”

“Too humdrum.”

“Snowballs?”

“Too late in the season.”

Just then, he heard a wet splat that sounded as if it originated behind his horse. He grinned, then said, “Equine droppings?”

Jagweed grinned right on back. “Perfect. Go on my count:
One
…
two
…” Before he could say three, Headcase Barker sprinted toward his horse. “Come on, Lord Barker,” the Not-Kingslayer whined, “you weren’t supposed to go until
three
. That’s not fair. Just because you’re a Lord doesn’t mean you get to…”

Jagweed was unable to complete the sentence because Head threw a massive ball of manure that landed directly in Sinister’s open mouth. Jagweed spit the crap onto the ground, then retrieved it, molded it into a tight ball, and tossed it at Head’s head. After a neat duck and roll, Head took another handful of poo from behind his horse and sidearmed it at Jagweed’s knee, hoping the incest-er would fall onto the ground mouth-first and drown in mud. With surprising quickness and skill, Jagweed slid to his left and avoided the ca-ca. Noticing that his horse hadn’t excreted since the battle began, Jagweed reached his hand up the steed’s anus and extricated several handfuls of turds.

Head ran behind his animal, knelt down, and began fashioning large pellets from the feces. Jagweed, however, had the same idea, and when Head peered around his horse, he was pelted with ten well-aimed guano slugs.
I’m old,
Head thought.
Two Summers ago, this battle would have been over, and Jagweed would be so full of shit that the whites of his eyes would have been brown
. But now Head had to rely on his wits and experience.

After surveying the field of battle (such as it was), Head concluded that his best option would be a quick frontal attack—hit him hard, and hit him fast. He picked up his dung balls, took a deep breath, and, with a wordless scream, jumped out from behind his horse and charged the Not-Kingslayer.

Before Lord Headcase Barker took his fifth step toward Jagweed Sinister, a pain and stench worse than anything he’d ever experienced overtook him, and the world went black. The next he awoke, he was in a small, dark room, lying in a bed, a needle stuck in his arm, and a pile of white powder on his pillow. Before he fell into oblivion, a single thought drifted through Head’s overtaxed brain:
Summer is coming
.

“My balance is fine, Bobb. I don’t need any of this stuff,” Allbran carped.

Bobb Barker was fastening Allbran’s makeshift leg brace to the horse’s saddle. “Yes, you do,” he growled, “because if you fall off of this thing and further injure yourself, Mother would never let me hear the end of it. I can hear her now:
If you can’t take care of your brother, how could you expect to take care of House Barker, blah blah blah
.”

“There’s no way I can
further
injure myself, Bobb, because I’m not injured in the first place,” Allbran explained with a high-pitched fart.

“If you’re going to
ride
on this horse,” Bobb sneered, “you’re going to be
glued
to this horse. If you don’t like it, well, I’m sure Dickoff would love to work on his dressage.”

Allbran growled, “I hate you, Bobb.” Then he called, “Hinky, come!” Allbran’s direpanda—who had grown considerably in the last dozen or so chapters—loped over to the horse, his tongue hanging pinkly from his mouth. Pointing at Bobb, Allbran added, “Hinky, attack!”

Bobb then called, “Blinky, come!” And then Bobb’s direpanda, who we have yet to meet, ran over and head-butted Hinky into tomorrow. Fortunately, tomorrow came early, so Hinky shoved Blinky across the lawn, where he lost his balance and fell into a mud puddle. Hinky seemed to laugh, which angered Blinky, but before he could again attack, he appeared to join his direpanda brother in a chuckle. The two direpandas then put their arms around each other and wandered off to the East.

Allbran and Bobb stared at each other, then Bobb sputtered, “Okay, since I’m in charge here, I make the decisions, and my decision is to track down those Godsdamn bears.”

“Good to see you’re prepared to make those tough choices, Bobb,” Allbran said.

“Hey, no lip out of you, kid. My next decision is that we separate. You go North, I go South.”